


Play It Again

by doctordonjuanson, redscudery



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ALL THE GOOD STUFF, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Break Up, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Military Kink, Outdoor Sex, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion Sex, Rough Sex, So much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 11:56:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctordonjuanson/pseuds/doctordonjuanson, https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock sneaks into John’s new flat to reveal himself after Reichenbach, things take a sideways turn, and John must immediately decide between lovers old and new. At least, he thinks he does, but both Mary and Sherlock have something to say about it. Meanwhile, Sherlock is finding that old memories die hard, and that being back in London is a little more difficult than he thought.  </p><p>Written with calypsothefair for the Sherlock Mini-Bang. The prompt was “Choose a character (or several, if you like) from the BBC Sherlock series and depict them learning about and reacting to this news.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Back to the Start

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on two songs, “I’m Your Man” by Leonard Cohen (for John; live version here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tKjSr1zOTq0) and “The Scientist” by Coldplay (for Sherlock; official Vevo version here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RB-RcX5DS5A).
> 
> For the timeline, we used the one here: http://bakerstreet.wikia.com/wiki/Sherlock_Timeline; we’ve placed Sherlock’s return in May because it seemed most likely, then ran the fic into June and beyond. 
> 
> City of London Cemetery and Crematorium is a real place. 
> 
> Finally, most of this fic was written in November, prior to the release of the new trailers and the minisode.

 

**May 2013, St. Bart’s** **  
**

**_**Come up to meet you, tell you I'm sorry  
** _ _**You don't know how lovely you are** _ **

 

Sherlock considers the risk of falling.

It isn’t a great risk, or one that should be particularly worrying, considering the fact that he has the balance of a swordsman. It’s just something that has itched in the back of his mind constantly.

Especially since his fall. It isn’t just soldiers that are plagued by ghosts of their pasts.

If Sherlock is honest with himself, he knows that when he thinks of what his past was, he is thinking about John. He shakes his head, trying to clear his mind from the memories of falling that overwhelm him.

In his rational mind, Sherlock knows that he has no reason to fear heights; he is a testament to that. He has survived the fall and the backlash from Moriarty’s web, despite all odds.

Sherlock shivers in the cold air on top of Bart’s Hospital. He has paid his penance. It’s time to go home.

It’s raining as he walks to John’s new residence.

 

**May 2013, John's flat**

_**If you want a lover** _ _**I'll do anything you ask me to** _

 

 

John comes half-awake, in the dark, to the sound of heavy rain hitting the windowpane. He’d almost seen Sherlock in his dream, but only vaguely; he’s elusive even in John’s subconscious. He turns over, enjoying the extra space in the bed even as he misses Mary’s warm sleepiness. He’s falling back into sleep when something moves in his peripheral vision. He sits up straight, suddenly nervous, but there’s nothing, and he rolls over and goes back to sleep.

His next dream is much more vivid than the last. He can almost hear Sherlock’s voice telling him he is all right, that he can wake up. When he rolls over, it’s face first in a coat, the coat, its smell of wet wool and fresh air and Sherlock.

 

**September 2011, Baker Street**

_**I had to find you, tell you I need you** _  
_**Tell you I'll set you apart** _

 

The coat had been the catalyst for their first kiss. John remembered the lancing jealousy he had felt as Irene Adler sat there, wrapped in Sherlock’s coat. He’d tried to dismiss it, but he couldn’t quite, making sharp comments the whole time That Woman was in their flat. (He continued to refer to Irene as “That Woman”, taking perverse pleasure in Sherlock’s correction. “The Woman.”)

Irene Adler had opened up the cracks in their relationship; John was more likely to think of himself as, not gay, exactly, but heteroflexible? Sherlock-sexual?

 Sherlock had begun to think that love, despite his protestations, might be something that had already compromised him. When John had failed to answer, for once, Irene’s assertion that they were a couple, or protest her flat statement that both of them cared for him, Sherlock had been surprised, for once. Though the chemistry of love, he thought, was no mystery, what to do next certainly was.

 It was when John had pettishly flung the coat on the floor the next day that Sherlock reacted.

“Leave my coat alone!” he’d roared, picking it up and, inexplicably, putting it on.

“It was on my bloody chair. Can’t I sit anywhere here?”

“Don’t be so damned childish.”

“I’M childish?” The heat was rising to John’s cheeks. “Then what the hell do you call mooning around after a calculating bitch who isn’t even interested in someone of your gender?”

“Living with you, you idiotic wanker.” Sherlock flopped limply into his chair, his head in his hands.

“What… what? What the devil are you on about, Sherlock?”

“I wouldn’t call you calculating. Definitely bitchy, though” came the muffled comment.

“Sherlock, What. Are. You. Saying?” Something like panic underscores John’s words.

“You can figure it out, John.”

“Why would I give you the satisfaction?” Smug, God, he’s so smug.

“You tell me.”

“Fine. You’re mooning after me, is that what you’re saying?”

“I object to the term ‘moon’, but yes. You.”

“You moon constantly... what?” A pause. “I like women. I’m not interested.”

But he was. God help him, he was.

“Give me your hand.”

A little dazed, John held out his hand. Sherlock slid his fingers around John’s wrist and placed them on his pulse.

“It’s fast.”

“We’ve been fighting.”

“So we have. And about what? A woman.”

“I’m not interested in That Woman.”

“The Woman. My point exactly.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not interested in other women.”

“I know.”

 Sherlock pulled on John’s hand, and John stumbled forward, saving himself from a fall into Sherlock’s lap at the last second. He was still off-balance, though, and when Sherlock stood up enough, uncomfortably close. He felt the heat of Sherlock’s body when Sherlock stepped to face him.

 They had been this close before, inches between their bodies, but always for some reason. Or at least some external reason. Now there was nothing else to distract them.

 “So you…so you…” John knew he should step away.

 “John.”

 Sherlock closed the distance between them again, then bent, slightly, to kiss him. The brush of lips and bodies was brief but conclusive; John had never kissed a man before, but this was Sherlock. The desire that shot through John was intense, the body next to him not so strange after all, smelling of damp expensive wool, like shampoo, like clean skin, like Sherlock.

 John raised his hand to Sherlock’s shoulder, then, tentatively, deepened the kiss.

 Sherlock tasted like John’s toothpaste (aha! John knew he’d been nicking it instead of buying his own, the bastard) and tea. He was tentative now, following John’s lead, allowing John to set the pace, allowing John’s tongue to slip inside his mouth.

 It was that submission, lovely but surprising, that made John take a step back.

 “What was that, Sherlock?”

“I assume you are asking for something more than the obvious answer.”

 John raised an eyebrow.

 “Very well. I am confessing my attachment to you. Does that make you feel any better?”

“Attachment? This isn’t a Jane Austen novel, Sherlock.”

“Who?”

“Of course. Of course not. This is madness, you know it is. You’re ...whatever it is you are. I’m straight.”

Sherlock laughed, but it wasn’t a happy laugh, exactly. His face is suddenly blank and wary.

“It’s not that I don’t care for you. I do. It’s just …the logistics are overwhelming.”

“Why do we have to worry about logistics? The mechanics of a homosexual relationship are reasonably similar to those of a heterosexual one, up to a point, and beyond that point there are ample sources of information.”

“It’s not that. Or, it is that, in part, but I just-I don’t want…”

“You do.”

“Well, thank you for telling me my own mind.”

“It saves time. We have a remarkable affinity. We’ve experienced more stress in a year than many romantically attached couples have in a lifetime. We are attracted to each other physically. ”

“Maybe.” Yes, in fact, but John was still sorting that one out. “But there are risks that come with turning friendship into romance.”

“You like risks.”

“God help me, I do. But this risk…it’s not necessarily one I’m willing to take.”

“Why not, John?”

“Like I said, you’re…you, and I’m straight.”

“I’m not a virgin, despite your assumption. And you may be straight, but you are still attracted to me. Also, don’t lie to me, even about emotions.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Omitting, then. Why, despite attraction and compatibility, do you not want to be with me?”

“I told you.”

“You did not.”

“Yes, I did. You just don’t want to hear it!”

“John, tell me.” Sherlock’s eyes are genuinely pleading, just for a second.

“Fine. Fine! I don’t want to risk our friendship. I don’t want this to go horribly wrong and have it be awkward. You’ve seen what it’s like with my girlfriends. I drive people away, Sherlock.”

“And your sexuality?”

“I don’t know. That’s not the most pressing issue.”

“And yet you just said it was. Interesting.”

“Oh, come off it, Sherlock. Can you not deduce me right now?”

“I wouldn’t have to if you told me what you were thinking.”

“I”m not sure I know what I’m thinking. And what about you, anyway? You’re giving me the third degree and all you’ve told me is that you have an attachment! You’ve been celibate for years and now you want to start a relationship?”

“Unusual, but there you have it. You surprise me. I want to try things with you.”

“Romantic. So I’m one of your experiments?”

“You aren’t!” Sherlock ran his hands through his hair and turned to the window. “For someone who claims to be able to discern feelings, you’re doing a bloody awful job!”

“See? This is it! I’m already hurting you and we’re only one kiss in!”

“That’s because you’re being a bloody idiot. Stupidity hurts me.”

John knows, then, for absolute certain, that now Sherlock is lying. John _is_ hurting him.

“Sherlock, of course I care for you” He licks his lips. “I love you. I do. I just...what we have is so much, that I don’t want to cock it up.” Sherlock snorts at that, and it helps John continue.

“I would do anything for you. You know that.”

“What about this, then?”

“If this is what you want, then, God save me, I’ll try it. Let’s just take it slow, though, all right?”

“John?”

“What?”

“You can’t drive me away, no matter how you try. It's a foregone conclusion.”

 Sherlock stooped to kiss him again. John tilted his face up to the kiss, savouring the softness of Sherlock’s lips, the fresh-air smell of his skin and curls. The coat is rough against his bare chest.

And suddenly, John is wide awake. There’s a dark shape filling his field of vision and the pressure on his lips and chest is real. He scrambles back, bumping his head painfully against the wall.


	2. Another Kind of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock breaks into John and Mary's apartment to reveal himself to John. Mary is away. What could possibly go wrong?

“Who the FUCK are you?”

“John. It’s me, John.”

“You’re dead.” Stupidly. He’s not, obviously, nobody else has that voice, those lips, that smell.

“I’m not.”

“Oh.” John is bereft. He sees Sherlock, understands he’s still alive, but his mind is suddenly empty.

“I am so sorry, John. I had no idea you would be so affected.” Sherlock sits carefully on the bed and takes John’s hand, “You would have been shot, otherwise.”

There are tears in his eyes. John registers that, and tugs on Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock tilts over into bed, gracelessly for once, and lays his head on John’s chest. John strokes his hair, his shoulders, aimlessly.

“You were gone so long.”

“It was too long.” Sherlock reaches up to touch John’s shoulder, his hands cool. John shivers.

They sit quietly, John doesn’t know for how long; he’s drifting in and out a bit. It’s probably shock, his detached doctor brain is telling him.

 

“John?” Sherlock’s voice seems to be coming from far away, too.

“I’m here.”

“Are you all right?”

“I don’t know.”

Sherlock sits up again, looks at John’s face. Whatever he sees there makes him lean forward and kiss John again. It is both an apology and an explanation, but there’s a demand there too.

John reaches up and touches Sherlock’s hair again, his cheek, his neck.

“Damn you.”

“Please, John. I …”

John kisses him this time, and harder. Sherlock melts into him with a small, grateful sound. Their desire rises and swirls around them; Sherlock presses himself into John and they’re pulling at Sherlock’s clothes. Sherlock’s coat falls to the floor--no complaints this time, John notes--and his shirt follows. John runs his hands across Sherlock’s body, feeling his pale skin heat at John’s touch. Sherlock aroused arches towards John’s hands, always has, and John soaks in the life and vigour of Sherlock’s living body. He pulls Sherlock close, and they’re face to face, skin to skin, and it’s still not enough.

“Take off your trousers.”

Sherlock just keeps kissing him, his body pressing John into the mattress.

“Mmph!” John pushes Sherlock’s face back, “Are you all right?”

Sherlock just kisses him again.

“Sherlock!” John manages to get his face free. “You’re not _saying_ anything.”

“John!” At least Sherlock rolls over and lets John unbutton his trousers this time.

“No pants, Sherlock, really? You faked your death, you sneak into my flat in the night, and you think no pants is the way to go?” John’s trying to fill that space where their dialogue usually goes, but it’s falling on deaf ears.

Sherlock is finally pushing his trousers down, though, and as soon as they’ve fallen to the floor, he’s back on the bed, glued to John from lips to feet. Their bodies push together, both of them breathless, and they dissolve into each other as they have done so often. Their tenderness is elided by the need of two years, built up, sublimated, ignored.

John reaches for Sherlock, sliding his hand between their bodies. Sherlock pushes his hand away, and John is taken aback.

“Wait.”

John insists, pushing at Sherlock’s hipbones, but Sherlock pushes back. They’re caught in a kind of no-man’s-land for a minute, and there’s anger starting to come into John’s kisses. He’s starting to remember that Sherlock left him, left _him_ , and now he’s back for some inexplicable reason, pushing what he wants on John.

John surges up at that thought, bracing himself against the mattress and now he’s on top, catching Sherlock’s bottom lip in his teeth and biting, harder than he should. There’s a faint taste of blood, but Sherlock doesn’t pull away, and their teeth clash. John insists on the kiss still; he lifts his body up and grabs Sherlock’s cock, stroking him none too gently once, twice. Then, breaking the kiss, John brings his hand to Sherlock’s mouth and pushes his middle finger in. Sherlock chokes a bit at the speed, but takes it; he licks and sucks until John can feel it all the way down in his own cock.

When John breaches Sherlock (slides his hand down Sherlock’s body and penetrates him with that finger), Sherlock cries out. He hasn’t done this in so long, but even though it hurts, he wants John inside him in any way possible, so he lifts his hips and breathes, trying to relax.

John is insistent, and he pushes again.

“Let me in, Sherlock.”

Sherlock exhales through his nose, but remains silent, rocking gently. John kisses him, more carefully now, then sets his lips to Sherlock’s jawbone, his neck, his collarbones. The hot, short kisses are exciting but inadequate, and Sherlock groans a little in frustration. John trails his tongue down Sherlock’s chest towards his cock, still pushing into Sherlock with his finger. When John’s mouth surrounds Sherlock’s cock, the finger finds his prostate as well, and Sherlock is suddenly open, frantic with desire, and he pushes his cock deep in to the wet warmth of John’s mouth. John groans, taking him in, back and forth, noisy and slippery.

Sherlock rocks his hips again.

“So close”

John sits up on his heels and looks at Sherlock spread out on the bed. He’s flushed now, naked and tousled, and so hard. More importantly, he’s John’s, and John’s right now.

“Do you want me inside you?” John asks, but it’s really only a formality; he’s already stroking his own cock, already hard and damp. He spits on his hand and makes it slick enough to serve. Sherlock shivers. John is so rarely this cavalier, but Sherlock is ready to bear the cost if that’s what it takes.

John presses, hard, against him, and Sherlock opens for him, taking the head of John’s cock inside him, holding himself carefully, breathing in. John is iron hard, with anger and with excitement, and Sherlock is dizzy with it.

**November 2011, Baker Street**

_**If you want another kind of love** _

_**I’ll wear a mask for you.** _

 

The only other time John had been like that was when Sherlock had surprised him in uniform. He’d been trying it on just before a Remembrance Day parade, the first year home. He hadn’t yet decided whether he was going to march, Sherlock knew. By the pacing,John was having a hard time balancing the desire to honour his fallen comrades and his dislike of being in the spotlight and his own conflicting feelings about military service.

Bursting into the room, intent on getting to the crime scene before Anderson arsed it up, Sherlock was stopped dead by the sight of John standing in front of the mirror, shoulders stooped and intense sadness on his face. As he turned to face Sherlock, he straightened reflexively. Sherlock breathed in deeply. This was a different John, and Sherlock savoured the novelty.

“Crime scene, John, let’s go.” A brief, reflective pause. “But I think you should wear that for me some time.” He winked, and turned on his heel to go. There was something very suggestive about the victim’s torn earlobe in the photos that Lestrade had se…

Suddenly, Sherlock went down like a stone.

“This is not,” John was breathing heavily into his ear, “NOT just something for your pleasure, Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock’s left shoulder and knee stung from hitting the ground so hard, and John was pinning him to the floor, holding his right arm at an uncomfortable angle behind him.

Sherlock had never been so turned on in his life. The weight and heat of John’s body on his and John’s angry breath on his neck was going straight to his cock, and the anticipation of John’s next move was equally tantalizing. He wriggled a little, pushing his hip against John’s groin, and John shifted. That movement told Sherlock that John was becoming aroused despite himself, and so he pushed again, and sighed. John’s grip tightened and he shook Sherlock, not hard, but firmly, to show Sherlock just who was in charge at that particular moment.

“I’m …sorry, John” Sherlock was sorry, but he also knew that saying that would mollify John. And a mollified John was an aroused John. Lestrade could wait, if it meant Sherlock could explore this new side of John.

“Oh, you will be.” John was clearly not mollified, and a little thrill went down Sherlock’s spine. This is definitely Not Boring. John shifted his weight, rocked back on his heels, and yanked Sherlock up, so they were both standing. It was only for a moment, though, and Sherlock found himself quickly divested of his coat (on the floor again, also no protests). John’s hands moved to Sherlock’s trousers, and unzipped him, roughly pulling them down but not off, then bent over the bed. John took down his own trousers and pulled himself out of his pants. Sherlock was breathless, waiting for John to ask consent, because he always asks for consent, but the damp head of John’s cock was right against his arse before he said anything.

“Is this what you want?” Not really a question, but Sherlock nodded anyway, and then John was inside him.

**May 2013, John’s flat**

**_If you want a partner_ **

**_Take my hand_ **

 

John is inside him, now, all the way. Sherlock backs up, embraces the momentary pain. John is still huffing with anger and desire, but he holds still for a moment, letting Sherlock re-acclimate to him. When Sherlock’s grip relaxes, John pushes again, and then they’re together, one flesh, suspended in a moment of anticipation before the rush of desire reclaims them. John lowers himself on his elbows and kisses Sherlock, and their mouths melt together. Their bodies begin to move again, matching the rhythm of their kiss, and now there’s nothing but sensation.

Sherlock is crushed into the mattress; John’s body is powerful above, around, and inside him. John’s cock seems to reach every part of him, and the rub of his belly against Sherlock’s cock is maddening, and Sherlock arches up to meet it. There has been nobody since John, since before Sherlock “died”, and he soaks in the rich, damp texture of John’s flushed skin against him. He’s nearly there already.

John’s harsh breathing is accelerating, and he presses Sherlock back into the mattress, burying his face in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock arches his body, and tenses around John’s cock, and as he does, John stops, pulling out almost all the way. He lifts himself up on his forearms and looks at Sherlock.

“Open your eyes. Look at me. Be here.” John commands, then thrusts one last time, and Sherlock comes, caught on a wave of guilt and pleasure. He struggles to keep his eyes on John’s face, but as John climaxes, Sherlock loses the battle and closes his eyes, feeling John convulse kissing him hard, teeth clashing. His orgasm goes on a long time, his mouth glued to Sherlock’s, his body trembling.

“I’m here.” Sherlock says into John’s mouth.

John breathes in, takes in the words, slowly coming down.

“I know.” He tilts away from Sherlock and collapses on to the bed, “I know.”

They’re not touching right now, and that seems wrong to Sherlock. He wants to be wrapped around John, nose into his neck. He rolls to one side, bringing his hand to John’s chest, where the sweat is cooling, but when John’s muscles tense under his touch Sherlock draws his hand back. He opens his mouth to say something, but he is overcome with fatigue. He closes his eyes, and sleeps.


	3. Strike Me Down In Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's moral compass kicks in, and past and present are a sad contrast to each other.

**May 2013, John’s flat**

**_Or if you want to strike me down in anger_ **

**_Here I stand_ **

**_I'm your man_ **

John has been sleeping fitfully since about four a.m., guilty and nervous.  He gets up and walks to the window, leaving Sherlock sprawled on the bed, sleeping deeply.

Leaning against the window, he looks out at the night. There’s no use in asking himself what he’s done, because he knows. He’s betrayed Mary by making love to Sherlock in their bed; he’s betrayed Sherlock by falling in love with Mary. He’s betrayed himself by doing both things.

He can’t marry Mary now, he thinks. He can’t stay with Sherlock either, not after what he’s done, can he? He knows Sherlock knows about Mary- he can’t have missed it. Even an emotional Sherlock would still have been able to deduce that John lived with a woman in his walk from the front door to the bedroom.

“Sherlock?”

His deep, sleepy voice seems to reverberate through the room.

“Here.”

“Where were you?” John’s voice comes as if from far away.

“Everywhere. No fixed address. I did work for Mycroft to pass the time, but never really saw anyone.”

He feels rather than sees John blanch. He knows that he can manipulate John into coming back to bed right now—one more sentence in this defeated tone, one more sigh and John would step away from the window and hold him—but he’s so tired. He wants John to come back to him for always, and that will have to be on John’s own terms. 

“What about now? Where are you living?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Balls, Sherlock, of course it does.”

“I thought you wanted to talk about our relationship. Or your relationship. I’m just waiting for you to work it through.”

“Tell me where you’re living.”

“Baker Street, as always.”

“Alone?”

“Only until you come home.”

“This is my home now, Sherlock.”

“But will you stay?”

“I…” John is open-mouthed. Not good. Sherlock realizes he’s gone too far. 

“I love you. I was hoping…hoped that once I came back it could be like it was.”

““Sherlock, I made a life for myself. I have a job, a regular one, and Mary …I made a promise to Mary, and I’ve already broken part of it. I have to do what’s right.”

“And what moral precedent could you possibly apply? If we had simply separated, and we had engaged in sexual activity after you had promised yourself to someone, then you could feel guilty.”

“Look, Mary and I had promised to be faithful to each other. I wasn’t. I know the circumstances are unusual. What I did… what we did… is still wrong and I need time to think about it.”

“John, it’s illogical!” 

“It’s right, Sherlock.” John rubs his hands through his hair. 

He shivers into the blankets. He’s not looking forward to what’s coming.  All Sherlock wants is to take John in his arms again, but it’s definitely too soon.

It takes a minute before John gets to it, though. 

“You knew about her, didn’t you?” Rhetorical question, clearly.

“I did.”

“Then why kiss me?”

“I missed you.”

“I’m engaged to her, Sherlock.”

“Are you?”

“You didn’t deduce that as you sneaked into our flat?”

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, John.”

“Says the man that was dead for three years.”

“It was expedient.”

John whirls around to face him.

“Expedient. You fucking bastard! Expedient!”

“Your face shows everything you think, John. I couldn’t have told you.”

John is dangerously close now, and his voice is getting louder.

“I am not an idiot or a weakling. I have a medical degree! I was deployed to Afghanistan! I’ve probably killed more people than you! More importantly, I loved you!”

“Loved?”

“I’ll be damned if I know any more, Sherlock.” 

“You do love me. You are coming home to me. I know you are. Why waste time?” 

And then John is grabbing his shoulders and shaking him. Sherlock rocks back on the bed. 

“John!”

“You died. You _died_! And now you come back and tell me what to do, assume like always that I’ll be there. Leave. Leave now!” John’s fists are clenched and while Sherlock knows John won’t hit him really, he is too angry to listen to reason. 

He’s lost, then. He shouldn’t have contradicted John, who has an alarming tendency to stick to false statements when challenged (”I’m heterosexual!” being the most notable recent example). 

“All right, John. All right.” Sherlock bends to pick up his clothes. It hurts to look away from John, and it hurts more to leave the room. John is immobile against the window when he goes.

Walking through the street, Sherlock shivers. He had allowed himself to hope that John will take him back just as things were before, when they lived in the charmed circle of Baker Street and were everything to each other. If he had been a client he would have laughed at his self-indulgent sentimentality. He has always known that it would be futile. John may or may not come back to him now. If he does, it will take time. And pain. Caring is never an advantage, Mycroft had said, and Sherlock doesn’t quite know how to react to the fact that he was both so right and so wrong. 

**October 2011, Meadowbank Road, Cranford**

**_If you want a boxer_ **

**_I will step into the ring for you_ **

**_And if you want a doctor_ **

**_I'll examine every inch of you_ **

It was odd, John thought, punching someone. It wasn’t like shooting, with the kick of the gun and the powder burns and the distance. Punching someone was intimate, immediate, painful. As he drew back his hand and watched Sherlock’s assailant fall to the ground, he wound up again, just in case and exhaled sharply with the excitement of the fight.

They were backed up into an alley, and it looked as though the terror cell’s leader was going to get away from them. He had told off three unreasonably large men to “take care” of John and Sherlock and scarpered in a cab, and now John and Sherlock were fighting their way out.

He took a moment to glance over to Sherlock, who was still grappling with the other man who had attacked him largest of the henchman. He had gotten in a few good blows but he looked pretty bloody; John stepped away from the man on the pavement and wheeled around to face the third man, who’d grabbed his collar. Mistake, John thought happily; he shifted his weight, brought his shoulder up under the other man’s armpit, and flipped him against the wall hard enough to make him lose his breath. Bringing his heel down into the man’s neck, he was able to look at Sherlock again. His attacker was also on the ground and Sherlock was pinning him down, and, improbably, looking at his phone.

“Lestrade got the leader. He’s sending a team for this lot too, so just hold on. Oh, and,” Sherlock shifted his attention to the man John was restraining, “that mole is probably malignant. What do you think, Doctor Watson?”

John snorted. “Looks like it. What about you? I’d like to have a closer look at that cut of yours.”

“I am desolated, John, that you would think this blood is mine.” Sherlock’s eyes were bright.

“Much as I appreciate your fighting skill, I can see the cut, Sherlock.” John shook his head. The more excited Sherlock got, the more flowery his speech became.

“It is simply a figment of your imagination. I am entirely whole and perfectly well.” He did look well, curls wild and face flushed. John felt an increasingly familiar twinge of desire. They hadn’t touched each other since last week’s kiss, but they moved differently, more conscious of each other now that their attraction had been acknowledged. Neither of them knew, particularly, how to make the next move.

“Hah. I bet you ten quid you need stitches, you vain bastard.”

“Taken. Ah, here come the cavalry.” Sherlock bowed to the sergeant coming down the street.

Once they got back to Baker Street, it turned out that John was right, and he felt pretty smug about it. He was happy Sherlock was wrong, though he wasn’t happy Sherlock was injured—though he’d refused to let John look at him when they’d arrived, he came out of the shower, damp and paler than John would have thought possible, holding his head and looking sorry for himself.

“So you are hurt. Come here, then.” John had his kit beside him, and he patted the couch.

“Do you need to look so pleased with yourself?”

“Until you give me the ten quid I do.”

“Heartless. Hippocrates would be ashamed.”

“You should be ashamed for not listening to your doctor.”

“I listen to you a great deal more than you give me credit for.”

“Hmph. When you eat and sleep regularly, and get knifed with considerably less frequency, I’ll believe that. Now sit.”

Sherlock lowered himself gently onto the couch beside John.

“Not that side. I can’t see your wound.”

“One moment, Dr. Watson. I can, in fact, tell my right from my left, you know.” Sherlock leaned down and settled his head in John’s lap. “Can you see it now?”

John could, and knew that he should be thinking professional thoughts, but the mass of damp detective, so close, was doing his head in. Sherlock was surprisingly warm, and he smelled of expensive shampoo and clean skin. All John wanted to do was bend down and kiss the spot behind Sherlock’s ear.

Why not?

Too soon?

No.

Definitely not too soon.

His lips brushed Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock made a tiny “unf” of suprise, but it wasn’t protest, so John trailed his lips down Sherlock’s neck as far as he could reach, then back again. His hand came up to caress Sherlock’s arm, and he slid his fingers under the softness of Sherlock’s t-shirt to touch the sensitive skin on the inside of the bicep.

“Mmm.” Sherlock rumbled approvingly. John smiled against his ear, then ran his hand down Sherlock’s arm to his pjyama-clad hip. He raised his head and shivered, feeling Sherlock solid underneath him. Sherlock snaked his arm up to caress John’s hair. His fingers were warm and sure on John’s scalp, and John leaned into the touch for a minute.

“This isn’t doing much for your cut.”

“On the contrary. I can’t even feel the cut” Sherlock slanted his eyes towards John’s face and smiled lazily. “I hereby return your license to you.”

“Prat.”

“Generous prat.”

“Or something. Now let me fix that before the food gets here.”

“Food?”

“Curry. It’s dinner and bed for you.”

“Couldn’t we make it just bed? For both of us?” Sherlock had twisted over in John’s lap and was now facing him. His t-shirt had been hiked up, exposing a strip of creamy stomach. He looked completely edible.

“Are you making an indecent proposal to your doctor?”

“I am.” Sherlock said, and pulled John’s head down to his.

They were both hesitant, but after a few seconds of delicate contact, John regained his confidence and flicked out his tongue, gently exploring the inside of Sherlock’s plush lips. He increased the pressure and Sherlock’s mouth opened, and then they were really kissing, a soft smoothness, a back-and-forth of lips and tongues that made them both breathe faster. The excitement spiralled up, just from kissing, and it was only when John realized that his erection must be poking Sherlock in the back of the head that he finally broke the kiss.

“Um, you can’t be comfortable?”

“On the contrary. I’m enjoying the promise of things to come.” Sherlock grinned. He was erect as well, John noticed, looking down the long body. He slid his hand over Sherlock’s stomach, just missing the waistband of the overtaxed pyjama pants, and watched him shiver pleasurably.

“You make that sound absolutely filthy.” And exciting. John had felt his cock jump just at Sherlock’s voice.

“Successful intonation, then.”

“I still won’t forget about that cut.”

“John Watson, please take me to bed.” Sherlock rumbled, as low as possible.

“Wanker.”

“Less often now, I fervently hope.” Sherlock tried to pull John back down into another kiss.

John resisted.

“No. Now I will stitch you up, and you will eat something, and then, _only_ then, will I take you to bed. Is that clear?” John sees Sherlock’s pupils dilate when he says that. Aha.

“Speaking of absolutely filthy. Yes, Captain Watson, sir!”

“If I’d known that was what it took to make you behave, I would have used that voice ages ago.”

“So much wasted time. Now, please stitch me up, sir, I’m holding very still.”

For that, Sherlock did get another kiss, one in which John was much firmer and left him breathless, but then John stopped. They’d never make it to the bedroom at this rate, and he was having compunctions about seducing someone with a wounded scalp. Small compunctions, because it’s Sherlock after all, but still.

It only took a couple of sutures, and just as he put in the last one, the curry arrived. They ate in front of the television, just touching, and John cleared away the plates, then brushed his teeth.

“Come on, now. Bed. Doctor’s orders.” Sherlock unfolded himself obediently from the couch and went to the lavatory to brush his own teeth. John waited in the hall, and was so distracted that Sherlock bumped right into him coming out of the room. Sherlock smiled, then reached out, a little awkwardly, and took John in his arms. John relaxed into the embrace, enjoying the feeling of Sherlock’s body against his from head to toe.

“You’re the perfect size. I can rest my chin on your head.” Sherlock’s voice is an even deeper rumble now, when John’s ear is pressed to his chest.

“That makes me feel very manly.”

“Is this really the time to talk about your insecurities, John? You are very manly.”

“I know it. Do you?”

“Oh, it hasn’t escaped me. Now, can we please go to bed?” There was something childish in Sherlock’s tone, the I-want-something-right-now voice, and John was disinclined to refuse him.

“Yours or mine?”

“Mine. It’s closer.”

“Is there anything horrible in there I should know about?”

“Only me.”

“Duly noted.” He followed Sherlock into the room, pausing in the doorway.

“Coming?” Sherlock tossed his robe over the lone chair and was stripping off his t-shirt. John’s mouth went dry, just a little, at the planes and angles of Sherlock’s chest and arms. He thought it would be much more awkward than this, but all he wanted to do is touch, so badly his palms itched.

“Oh, yes.” he said, stepping closer.  He placed both hands on Sherlock’s hips, then slid them up and caressed his sides, his chest. His ribs were visible, but it only added to his beauty.

Sherlock reached behind him and grasped the back of John’s t-shirt, pulling it off, then stepped forward. He bent to kiss John before John had time to react to the almost shocking intimacy of their bare chests together. His mouth nipped around John’s lower lip, and the pressure of his teeth made John exhale sharply and move closer to Sherlock. John’s hands gripped Sherlock’s hipbones, then moved to touch his back, skimming over the taut muscle to rest carefully just below his shoulder blades. From there, he pulled Sherlock in to him more firmly and concentrated on the kiss. At least, he tried, increasingly conscious of Sherlock’s erection against his belly, and his own against Sherlock’s thigh.

  
“Lie down.”

John got on to the bed, a little uncertainly, and Sherlock followed, pushing him down on his back.

“I thought you liked it when I bossed you.”

“I seem to. Now, though, I’m bossing you. I imagine I’ll enjoy that too.” Lying on his side, propped on his elbow, Sherlock ran his fingers down John’s chest, along his ribs, and then around the waistband of John’s pyjama pants. John’s cock jumped at this last contact, and John inhaled, willing himself to stay calm.

“Sherlock!”

“Patience, John.” Sherlock ran one hand down John’s thigh, and John almost growled in frustration. Sherlock pushed himself up to his knees and towered over John’s prone body like an avenging angel.

“You’re enjoying this.”

  
“Why so accusatory, John? Aren’t you?” Sherlock bent to kiss John briefly before trailing his mouth along the richly textured skin of John’s neck and shoulder. John shivered at the touch of those lips, perfect and bowed. When Sherlock trailed them down along his ribs, John arched up to meet them despite himself, the tiny shocks from their contact sparking along his body.

“Oh!”

Sherlock stuck out his tongue and trailed it around John’s navel.

“Yes?”

“Sherlock!”

“Is that all you can say? Repetition, John, is the sign of a pedestrian mind.” Sherlock dipped his head and hovered over John’s erection. John felt his warm breath through the thin cotton of his pyjama bottoms and managed a moan rather than an exclamation. This was a fairly significant victory, John thought, but that thought was dissolved in the wave of pleasure that followed when Sherlock lowered his mouth to the fabric. The heat and damp of his lips sent shock waves through John’s cock, and he was already nearly there. When Sherlock worked the sides of his pyjama pants down his hips, John lost the plot a bit. He reached out for Sherlock’s shoulders, hoping to slow the progress of his desire by touching Sherlock, but the skin of Sherlock’s body under his fingers only fuelled it, the movement of muscles under warm skin reminding him that he was touching Sherlock, whose face was right next to his cock, right now, right here.

“Nothing else to say, John?” The vibration of Sherlock’s voice was against a very sensitive spot right now, and John really didn’t have anything coherent to say, especially when Sherlock trailed his tongue along the underside of his cock, light and tantalizing.

“Please?” Worth a try. Also, it may or may not be the only word that John remembered.

Sherlock grinned, and as John is processing that those lips are actually against the head of his cock, Sherlock opened his mouth and takes it inside, and John is lost. He pushed into the warmth of Sherlock’s slick mouth and cried out. Sherlock lifted himself up on his elbows and took the rhythm, tasting the salt and smooth flesh of John’s cock. John tensed underneath him already, so good.

“Sherlock!”  John tried to warn him, but Sherlock took him further in, and swallowed as John convulsed, blinded by pleasure.

When John was able to focus again, Sherlock was propped on one elbow, grinning at him. His own cock was hard against John’s hip, and he was lazily stroking it.

“You’ve done that before.” John said, almost accusingly.

“Elementary, really.” Sherlock looked unreasonably smug.

“Why are you so good at everything?” John turned to face Sherlock, running his hand down Sherlock’s ribs to his cock. He reached out tentatively, touched the silken underside. Sherlock shivered; heartened, John grasped it, ran his thumb over the damp tip.

“Mmm.” Sherlock arched, catlike, into John’s touch.

“I haven’t done this before.”

“I’ll be gentle.” John rolled his eyes at that.

“I’m sure.” He moved his hand, stroking gently, watching Sherlock’s face, which stayed amused for several strokes. However, as John increased the pressure, Sherlock’s expression softened, maintaining eye contact but taking on a look John had never seen before: eyes wide, mouth pink and half-open, curls tangled over his face. John had touched women before like this, maintaining eye contact while their pleasure intensified, but doing it with Sherlock was a completely different experience. Their bond had already been so profound that this seemed, despite their unlikely start, just an extension of that bond.

John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock’s mouth, tasting himself. Sherlock was breathing harder now; he kissed back, but sloppily, his tongue loose and soft in John’s mouth, his cock thrusting into John’s hand. His eyes were unfocused, but still watchful; the intensity was an intimate caress.

“Oh.” Sherlock came, spilling over into John’s hand. He was so quiet, his body taking over, and John felt a wash of tenderness for him. He needed, so much, but what he needed, John could give.


	4. Secrets and Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary comes home, and John's life falls apart.

**May 2013, John’s flat**

_**Tell me your secrets and ask me your questions** _  
_**Oh let's go back to the start** _  
_**Running in circles, coming in tails** _  
_**Heads on a science apart** _

 

John sees Mary leave the cab, but he still jumps when she opens the door and calls his name. He stays in the kitchen, standing uselessly over the sink instead of going to kiss her and hang up her coat as he usually does.

“John? Are you here?”

“In the kitchen.”

He hears the rustling of Mary hanging up her own coat, and her footsteps coming towards him. His heart pounds and his face is hot; he suddenly wishes he were facing the Taliban, or a murderous giant, or a desperate gang member, anything but this.

Of course, Mary sees it right away, sees the tension in his shoulders. She walks across the room to him, and as the little worry wrinkle in her forehead appears, John’s leg gives out and he leans against the bench.

“John! What’s wrong? What is it? Are you ill?”

He swallows.

“It’s…”

“John! Did someone die? Is Harry all right? Tell me!” She’s taken him into her arms, and his throat is thick. She’s only a little smaller than he is, but she is strong, and she holds him tightly, surrounds him. Her hair tickles his nose, and he smells perfume and car exhaust and warm woman. He knows he shouldn’t touch her, but he can’t not, and and his hands come up to her waist.

“Sherlock.” he chokes out, “He’s alive, Mary.”

She automatically pulls him closer, just because he’s said something, but John feels her tense under his hands.

“Oh, love.”

“Mary, he came here. Last night.”

“Classic Sherlock. I suppose he broke in and woke you up?”  
She shakes her head against his chest, and her tone is light. The worry wrinkle is back, though.

“He did.” John can’t get up the momentum to say more than a couple of words at a time. These are the last minutes of their comfortable, loving life, he knows, and so help him, he just wants a little more, one final consolation.

“What did he say?”

“He said he was sorry.”

“That’s all?” She’s angry. At Sherlock, for now. She strokes his hair.

“He said… he said he didn’t realize I would be so hurt.”

“I hope you decked him. Cretin.” He breathes in her compassion, the ticking of the clock, the hum of the fridge, the sound of cabs outside. There are books piled by the chesterfield, and one of the paintings on the blue wall is crooked.

He can hear her gearing up to ask the question before she asks it.

“What did you do, John?”

“I said ‘Who the FUCK are you?’”

“That’s all? Very restrained.” The little smile at the corner of her mouth makes him choke up again. She is lovely.

“‘You’re dead’, too. And,” John knew this was ridiculous, “I bumped my head.”

“You must have been terrified.” She reaches up to check his head for bumps, then stops. Her mouth wrinkles a bit and there’s a shine of tears in her eyes.

“I was, but, Mary,” He draws her into his chest, stroking her hair, returning the comfort while he still can.  
She cries a bit, for him and for his pain. John holds her, wishing he could stop there, say no more, stay here in this cocoon. But the words are rising in him and he will not be able to keep this thing from her.  
And she’s already crying.

  
“Mary, I have to tell you. I don’t want to hurt you… but… I am so sorry.” She steps back from him and he inhales and tries again.

“He surprised me in the middle of the night. I was dreaming, and he kissed me, and we…I don’t want to make excuses. I was in shock, but I could have stopped it. And I didn’t. And I kissed him too, and…”

“Stop it, John. Stop talking.” The room whirls around him, around them both, in a shattered, kaleidoscopic mess, and her voice is small and flat. She has both hands on his chest, pushing him away. Her face is shiny with tears, and that’s what finally pushes him over the edge. He puts his head in his hands and cries and cries, in a way he hasn’t since he lost his first patient.

Mary reaches out a hand to comfort him, but draws it back. He knows she’s right to do that, deserves to take that distance from him, but it’s so sharp a contrast from a minute ago that he has to cross one arm over his own body in pain.

“I’m so sorry.” He gasps it out like it will make a difference.

“I know.”

“I was so thrown, Mary. Two years. I’d grieved for him. I thought it was behind me. When I saw him, I didn’t know what to do.”

“You didn’t have to fuck him, though.” John recoils at the word, true as it is.

“No. I did shake him, after.”

She holds up her hand.

“Shut up.”

 Silence reigns again. John doesn't know what to do, so of course he opens his mouth.

“What now?”

“Jesus Christ, John, give me a minute.”

“I’m sorry.” He drops his head back into his hands.

She fiddles with an apple in the fruit bowl, then reaches for the kettle. She takes a step to the sink, then steps back and puts the kettle down.

“I don’t bloody know, John. I think maybe I punch you in the face?”

He straightens up, looks at her. She’s clenching and unclenching her fists. She might actually do it.

“You can. Maybe you should.”

“I won’t, you know that. I can’t even call you a fucking arsehole because I don’t know what I would do in that situation, you know? How could you possibly have known he was alive? Look, John, you loved him intensely. You lost him dramatically. He came back when you were vulnerable and you… made a mistake. I understand that.”

 “It will never happen again, Mary. Never.”

“How can you say that, John? How can you?”

“You know you can trust me, Mary.”

Her mouth prims up and she looks away for a minute. John stops, stunned. She doesn’t. He is reminded once again, forcefully, how much he’s lost.

“John, I know that you would never do it again.”

“But…” he suddenly wants to hear what she isn’t saying.

“But you would want to.”

It’s true, God help him. As much as he loves Mary, he is burning for Sherlock. He’s furious, but now that he knows Sherlock’s alive, he desperately wants to be where he is.

 “He was so wrong. He should have told me, though, trusted me. And he didn’t.”

“John.” Her warning voice.  He subsides. He knows he shouldn’t tell her anything else, that she shouldn’t have to bear any more.

“I think you should go, John.  Go now. Take a bag, go. Take some time to figure things out.”

“I’ve made my decision, Mary. I’m staying with you, if you’ll have me.”

“You haven’t. And honestly, I don’t know if I want to have you.”

“Please, Mary?” Even he’s not sure he means it.

“Look, you need to go. Not just for you, but for me. Go. Now.”

He thinks he sees Sherlock lurking in the shadows as he goes, but he pretends he doesn’t see him.  


	5. Pulling Your Puzzles Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confessions of love.

**March 2011, Baskerville**

**_If you want a driver_ **

**_Climb inside_ **

 

Sherlock was quiet in the car on the way back from the Hollow. John had expected him to be more triumphant, but the residual fear seemed to have a hold on him still. John made desultory small talk with Greg, but his heart wasn’t in it either.  Maybe the lingering effects of the drug? Certainly he himself was a little woozy.

 

By the time John had said goodnight to both their hosts and Greg, Sherlock had disappeared upstairs. When John had come into the room and closed the door, the bathroom door was shut and he could hear the sounds of the shower.  Taking off his coat, he sat in the one armchair and looked at the bed. It shimmered a little still, and he shivered as he looked at it. It must be the drug, he thought, because there was no way that the corner of the bed had twitched.

 

He really needed some sleep.

 

Sherlock came out of the shower, wrapped in only a towel and looking a little hunted.

 

“You okay?”

“Hmph.” Not so much, then. Sherlock dropped the towel and pulled some pyjama bottoms from his case. Even this tired, John could appreciate the beauty of Sherlock’s long, pale body.

 

“Can I… uh…help you?” John’s voice stuck in his throat a bit. It hadn’t been so very long that they’ve been together, after all, and Sherlock was so very beautiful.

 

“Come to bed.” It was rare that Sherlock asked for this. 

 

“I will. Just let me brush my teeth.”

 

When he came out of the bathroom, Sherlock was curled under the covers. John slid under the covers and wrapped himself gently and possessively around him, a surprisingly small ball for such a tall man.

 

“What did you see, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock started.

 

“How did you know?” His tone was a little pleased, and John bristled.

“I’m not a complete imbecile.”

“Well, I know that.”

“I am a doctor.”

“I also know that.”

“I did do a psych residency.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“I’m full of surprises. Tell me what you saw.”

“Moriarty.”

“That bastard.”

“John…he was coming for you.”

“He won’t get _me_.”  
“He will get me, you know. Someday, that man will be the death of me. And where will that leave you?” Sherlock was tense, twitching; John’s only ever seen him this upset twice: when John was wrapped in that Semtex vest, courtesy of Moriarty, and when Sherlock was questioning his own fear, yesterday.

“Sherlock, it’s all right. He won’t. You’re too smart for him.”  
“Am I, John? I just don’t know.”  
“Are you sure you’re not still drugged, just a bit? It’s not like you to be so … insecure.”

“John, what would you do, without me?”

“Sleep. Eat. Get a real job.” Even as he said it, John felt bad. It really was a bit like kicking a puppy, no matter how rarely Sherlock admitted to being human.

“NO, John. If I’m gone. Gone. No more. What will you really do?” Sherlock was absolutely serious, and John started to feel a little unnerved.

“Sherlock,” he hesitated, because as much as he knew he loved Sherlock, he was not sure Sherlock was ready to hear it, “I would be devastated. Since I’ve met you, my life has been something completely different, and I don’t know what I would do without you.” He hoped that struck the balance between true and acceptable to Sherlock.

“Are you saying you love me, John?” Maybe too close to true, then, John thought. There was silence.

What could he do? He did love Sherlock. Had loved him for longer than he cared to think about, although it was hard to tell when friendship and love overlapped. But knowing Sherlock’s near-genetic allergy to caring, he didn’t know if telling Sherlock was the right thing to do. But, just as the silence between them spilled over into uncomfortable, he did.

“I am.”

“Why?”

“Sherlock, really? I’m exhausted, and so are you.”

“I need to know, John.”

“Because you’re you.” It had taken all his moral courage to tell Sherlock the truth about loving him; John couldn’t go into detail. The confession would have to be enough.

“Partly, but I need to know: what will change it? What will make you stop loving me?”

“No, Sherlock, you don’t understand. I love you because you’re you.”  
“So not being me will make you stop loving me?”

John was a bit floored by this. Sometimes, when he least expected it, Sherlock broke out into this almost childish literal-mindedness.

“Unless you have a brain transplant, I will always love you.”  
“Brain transplants are highly unlikely to become feasible in our lifetime.”

“Then you’re safe, aren’t you? I’ll always love you- if that’s what you want. Probably even if you don’t want it.” John’s tone was light, but he was suddenly seized with doubt. What if Sherlock rejected him for this? He could close himself off so easily and John already knew he never wanted Sherlock’s cold indifference directed at him.  
“I don’t know. I think it’s what I want, but then there’s Moriarty. If you love me, he can hurt us.”

“That’s life, Sherlock. That’s love. It’s a trade-off. Risk and reward.”

“I don’t know how to protect you, John. I don’t know how to protect myself anymore.”

“We’ll take our chances, all right?”  
“But you underestimate him, John. You don’t know what he can do. He’s smart, almost as smart as I am, and he’s planning something.”

“I’m not underestimating him. I’m correctly evaluating your ability. And mine, too. You have me. Who does he have?”

“I don’t know. That’s it. I don’t know. He knows I have you, and he must suspect that I… that we…. He knows he can hurt me by hurting you. I might make a mistake.”

“You won’t, Sherlock. You are…” John stopped. He didn’t want to put any more weight on Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock could make a mistake. And if he did, it was all right. He was human.

 

Sherlock turned over to face him, face and shoulders taut in the half-light.  He looked at John without moving for a moment, then kissed him with a ferocity that was unsurprising.

 

John let himself be swept away, taken.  Sherlock pushed up above him and used the leverage to press harder into his mouth. It was clear Sherlock wanted to take over, mark him in some way, and though John tasted a faint tang of blood, but let it go, swirling into the kiss and letting himself be overwhelmed.

 

Sherlock pulled him further in; then, breaking the kiss, Sherlock straddled him, thighs gripping either side of John’s hips, and grabbed his t-shirt.

 

“Off!”

 

John complied, sweeping it off and lying back against the pillows. Sherlock took off his own shirt, then bent back down to kiss John again, crushing him into the mattress. His smooth chest was warm, and his erection under his pyjama bottoms was insistent against John’s own.

 

As Sherlock’s mouth traveled over John’s neck and collarbones, his hands pushed at John’s briefs, frantic to get at him, be as close as possible. He tugged in frustration, hampered by his own weight and trembling hands. John arched his hips up to help, but Sherlock fell to the side and pushed his own bottoms down, kicking them off the bed and turning back to a now-naked John. Face-to-face on the bed, John groaned as the full length of their bodies came together. Sherlock was still frantically kissing him, one hand in his hair, the other running along his spine to his buttocks.

 

“I can’t protect you. I can’t. And I’ll lose. We’ll lose.” He was gulping, almost crying. John could tell he was trying to hold himself together, but the cocktail of hallucinogen, emotion, fear, and desire was too much for him.

 

“We’ll get there,” John pulled Sherlock to his chest and smoothed his hair, breathed deeply, hoping his measured breath would be comforting. Sherlock stood it for a minute, but his hands became insistent again, grasping the length of John’s cock with an unpracticed intensity.

“John”

“It’s all right, Sherlock. I’ll make it all right.”

“I want…”

“I know.”

 

John pushed his cock up into Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock’s cock gave a twitch in response, and John reached out for it, taking the long length into his hand and stroking, firmly, no teasing. He licked his thumb and touched the sensitive tip, feeling Sherlock rock into his hand, tense, breathe in.

 

John gently disengaged Sherlock’s hand and rolled on top of him. Up on all fours, he brushed Sherlock’s mouth with his, bit that plush lower lip, ran his tongue inside the heat of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock groaned into him, pushing up his hips. John hadn’t relinquished his grip on that long, thick cock, and Sherlock continued to thrust into John’s hand. John worked his way down to Sherlock’s chest, trailing his tongue along the flat of his stomach, savouring the slightly salty tang and the softness of the skin just below the navel.

 

By the time John ghosted his mouth along the length of Sherlock’s cock, Sherlock was making impatient noises and his hands were tangled in John’s hair. When John set his open mouth at the tip, Sherlock pushed, hard. John opened, took as much as he could, sucking and holding him in, back and forth, his mouth slippery and wet.

 

Sherlock was still writhing in frustration. John took his mouth away from his cock long enough to wet his finger, and then went back to sucking. He slid it down between Sherlock’s buttocks, slowly tracing backwards and around, enjoying the urgency with which Sherlock arched up towards him.

 

When he finally started working his finger inside, Sherlock went still.

 

“Are you all right?”

 

“Oh, yes. Please, John.”

 

John pushed his finger forward to find Sherlock opening towards him, breathing more deeply but unsteadily. He redoubled his efforts on Sherlock’s cock, vibrating his tongue under the head until Sherlock’s hips were rocking back and forth and he was making soft,insistent noises that sent even more blood to pool in John’s groin. He rubbed his cock against the sheets, then stopped; the pressure was so good, too good. He didn’t want this to end, yet; his fatigue was dropping away as their desire spiralled up and up.

 

“John, please. I want you to…”

“I don’t want to come yet, Sherlock. Enjoy it.”

“No, I want you to…I want you inside…”

 

And there it was. John felt time slow, felt Sherlock’s plea echo inside his brain. They hadn’t done this, his rational voice said, because neither one of them was ready, nor maybe now, when Sherlock was in a state, was not the best time.

 

His irrational voice said, simply, “Now.”

 

He could always stop. He could.

 

As he raised his body up, feeling the drag of his cock along Sherlock’s leg, feeling Sherlock’s cock against his belly, goosebumps rose along John’s body. He bent to kiss Sherlock, their lips crashing together in slow, slow motion. It was probably the hallucinogen, he thought, but their kiss was ebbing and flowing like the ocean, back and forth, one movement, slowing the intense desire, just a bit.

 

When Sherlock opened his legs wider and shifted his hips so that John’s cock was up against his hole, John broke the kiss with his gasp. He drew back, reached over for the lube on the table, pushed up on his knees. Sherlock made a frustrated noise and tried to pull him down agan, but John resisted. 

 

“Do you really want this?” John hoped Sherlock would say yes. He was sprawled out on the bed, usually pale skin rosy with desire, dark curls tangled, mouth open, cock hard and slick with precum. All John wanted to do now was sink inside him and take him.

 

“JOHN!”

 

John squeezed some lube into his hand and slicked it along the length of his cock, shuddering into the pleasure. He placed the sticky head against Sherlock again and pushed, gently. Sherlock pushed back, and John felt the head of his cock enveloped in Sherlock’s body, indescribably tight.

 

“All right?” Sherlock’s head was thrown back and he was breathing hard.

 

“More.”

 

John pushed again. It was so good, so odd. He had never felt anything so intimate, not with anyone.

 

“Slow, John.” John gritted his teeth as Sherlock lifted his head to look at him, “Good, but intense.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes were glazed with pleasure, and John bent forward and kissed him, just missing his mouth.

 

“Beautiful” he breathed against Sherlock’s skin, tasting his cheek, smelling the mix of cologne and skin and sweat and sex that surrounded them.

 

“More now.” Sherlock arched towards him again.

 

“Bossy.” John smiled against him and pushed, slowly, all the way in. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but only a moan came out. John kissed him again, and then they were moving together, slowly, carefully at first. The ebb and flow was back, and though John knew it must be at least a little drug-induced, it was wonderful. They moved as if underwater, sensation rippling over both of them. Even their breathing was synchronized, in, and out, sealing the space around them, sealing the moment.

 

Another gasp from Sherlock quickened their rhythm. Those low, needy moans intensified John’s pleasure, breaking him out of his dreamy, liquid state. Urgency rose up in him, and he moved faster yet, feeling Sherlock’s body tense around him as he got closer to his climax. John reached down for Sherlock’s cock. Two, three, four strokes, and Sherlock was trembling on the edge. John looked at him, arched up and undone, and thrust harder, angling himself up just a little. The tight heat was so good, and he was coming, coming.

 

“Sherlock.”

“Ooh” Sherlock was beyond words, for once, as he came over John’s hand, their semen mingling on Sherlock’s belly.

 

John let go of Sherlock’s cock and kissed him, gently. Sherlock’s breath was still coming in short gasps, and John was trembling.

 

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

 

“I love you.” Might as well say it again, John thought.

 

“Foolish.”

 

But John knew what he meant.

 

**June 2011, St. Bart’s**

**_I was just guessing at numbers and figures_ **

**_Pulling your puzzles apart_ **

**_Questions of science, science and progress_ **

**_Do not speak as loud as my heart_ **

 

 

It was the one flaw in Sherlock’s plan. He had calculated everything to the last degree, but he had forgotten, maybe denied, that there would be pain. He had always minimized his love for John to himself, told himself it was because of data, of difference, of novelty. That of course he would prefer an audience and the convenience of someone to feed him and warm his bed to living alone and having to remember to throw out his own experiments. A Teasmade who provided sexual satisfaction and told him he was brilliant, but who stood up to him, pushed him. Who wouldn’t want that? John was a perfect accessory.

 

But standing there on the roof of St. Bart’s, the adrenaline of the showdown with Moriarty crackling through him, John’s voice urgent in his ear, Sherlock knew that from the moment he had seen John’s ridiculous feigned nonchalance across their first crime scene he had loved him, loved his puzzling combination of gentleness and intense violence.  Loved his face, his voice, and his hands, oh, his hands. Most of all, loved him, the whole man. He hoped John knew. Hoped that some of the love that John’s beautiful, mobile face had shown him was Sherlock’s own, reflected back to him.

 

It was only this now-terrifying knowledge that John had a sniper’s rifle trained on him that could have made Sherlock follow the rest of his plan. Years of practice with emotional barriers weren’t enough; he was barely holding himself together.

 

“No-one could be that clever, John.”

“You could.” There it was. John loving him by refusing to let him lie, denigrate himself.

 

“...my note. Goodbye, John.” The hardest words he had ever uttered.

 

The fall was another adrenaline rush.

 

**_Or if you want to take me for a ride_ **

**_You know you can_ **

**_I'm your man_ **

 

 

John could tell what Sherlock was trying to do, and he didn’t believe it. This was some kind of setup, some kind of joke; he wasn’t actually committing suicide; nobody like Sherlock committed suicide.

 

And yet when he saw the body on the sidewalk, reached through the crowd to take Sherlock’s pulse, there was no other option but to believe that Sherlock really had done it, that he was gone.

 

He never knew how he got back to Baker Street. He woke up the next morning, acid in his mouth and doubt in his mind, but the long stretch of days after that, with no Sherlock, ate away at that doubt.

 


	6. Harder Than It Looks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John moves back to Baker Street.

**May 2013, Baker Street**

**_Nobody said it was easy_ **

**_It's such a shame for us to part_ **

**_Nobody said it was easy_ **

**_No one ever said it would be this hard_ **

**_Oh, take me back to the start._ **

 

John stands at the door of 221b Baker Street. He reaches out to turn the handle, and, changing his mind, knocks.

 

Mrs. Hudson opens the door.

 

“John, dear, there you are. Sherlock said you would be by. Come in, now. Are those all your things? Oh, in that car?”

 

He fills his arms with boxes and goes up the stairs, breathing in the slightly musty air of the stairwell, the smell of Mrs. Hudson’s coffee cake, and a suggestion of chemicals. The scents evoke the thousands of times he had gone up these stairs before, crashing into the reality that he’d never thought he’d do so again. The doorway to their flat blurs a little, suddenly, and he has to lean against the wall.

 

“Goodness, John, that is an awfully heavy box. I wish Sherlock were here to help, but you know how he is.”

 

“I’m fine, Mrs. Hudson.” John shakes his head. “It’s just I never thought I’d be back, you know.”

 

“Of course, dear. Such a shock.”

 

The flat is the same as ever. Books everywhere, table cluttered, dust filling the air.

 

“Will you be going upstairs, dear, or will you move right back into his bedroom? I can’t tell; he hasn’t moved anything. He’s been impossible without you, dear, I can’t even say.”

 

“I’ll be upstairs.” He doesn’t want to say any more.

 

“Oh, well, I’m sure that will teach Sherlock a lesson. You stand firm, now.” Horrifyingly, she winks.

 

“I’ll do my best.” He knows his smile is unconvincing.

 

“That’s right, dear.” She opens the door and John takes the box upstairs to his old room.

 

He’s moved all the boxes upstairs and is starting to unpack when Sherlock comes home. John starts at the sound of his tread on the stairs. He smiles, because Sherlock is taking the steps two at a time.

 

Sherlock bursts through the door in a whirl of coat and curls.

 

“Why aren’t you downstairs?” he demands.

 

“I thought I would unpack, Sherlock. I would like to sleep in a made bed tonight.”

 

“My bed is made.”

 

“Forgive me if I don’t trust your bed.” The “or you” goes unsaid.

 

“But you came back, John, back to me.”

 

“I came back to the flat. That’s not exactly the same.”

 

“You want me back. You can’t live without me.”

 

“I did live without you.”

 

“Only just.”

 

“Sherlock, you are being an insensitive arse. You really are. Give me a chance to resolve things with Mary. I love her, you know.”

 

“But you love me more.”

 

“Yes, I love you more. But I don’t not love her because of that. You should know that even if you can’t feel it, and you should respect that, even with your bloody lack of boundaries and common sense.”  

 

Sherlock slumps against the wall, looking even more petulant than when he came in.

 

“I need you.”

 

“And you have me. This is no different than when I first moved in.”

 

“I need _all_ of you.” Sherlock is closer, staring him down now.

 

“And you will have all of me. When I have it to give. Until then, BACK OFF.” John’s shoulders are squared and he’s using that trick he has of seeming bigger than he is. It’s working, too; he’s filled up the space in the room with his voice and presence.

 

Except, of course, that his tone and stature are catching Sherlock right in the military kink, and, while Sherlock does retreat, his breathing accelerates and his pupils are dilated. John has a hard time resisting him when he’s like that-Sherlock seized with sudden desire is an unbelievably beautiful sight. When he parts his lips and licks them, John turns away. It would serve Sherlock right if he pushed him up against the wall and kissed him mercilessly until he came in his pants--and John knows exactly how to make him do that--but he wants to reinforce good boundaries. Too bad it’s so hard on him as well, he thinks, adjusting his own erection and reaching for a box of books. He doesn’t turn around when Sherlock leaves the room and stomps down the stairs.  


	7. Promises I Could Not Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John balances his guilt about Mary and his desire for Sherlock. Sherlock learns new things.

**May 2013, Baker Street**

**_Ah, the moon's too bright_ **

**_The chain's too tight_ **

**_The beast won't go to sleep_ **

**_I've been running through these promises to you_ **

**_That I made and I could not keep_ **

 

 

John knows he shouldn’t pick up the phone. He has been out with Lestrade, and they’ve been drinking. Lestrade is solidly sympathetic, and before he knows it, John has told him everything. To his credit, Lestrade doesn’t flinch, just pats his shoulder and gets him home safely. Too bad the flat is the most dangerous place he can be, John thinks, even--especially-- with Sherlock shut in his room, sulking.

 

Mary never sulked, he thinks. She always just told me straight out what was wrong. She never asked for more than I could give. She was so good to me.

 

He picks up the phone.

 

It rings several times, but she does pick up, sleepy.

 

“Mary?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s John.”

 

“What do you want?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I said ‘What do you want?’”

“And I said I was sorry. I want to say I’m sorry.”

“I know that, John. And I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Can’t we talk?”

“We’re talking.”

“In person. I love you. I’m sorry.”

“John, this is not a good time.”

“Is there someone there?”

“What? Of course not. And you know, if there were, that would be fine, John. It would be _perfectly fine_. You’re _gone_.” She’s not sleepy anymore.

“Can we talk?”

“John, are you drunk? Really?”

“A little, but...I was talking to Lestrade, and it just made me realize how much I’ve failed you.” He wants her sympathy even though he knows he has no right to it.

“John, I am not going to grant you absolution. Especially  not when you drunk-dial me. Not now. In fact, I am going to hang up on you right now.”

“I’m sorry. Please talk to me in person.”

“No.”

 

She hangs up.

**_Oh a man never got a woman back_ **

**_Not by begging on his knees_ **

 

Sherlock sees John hunched over the table. He’s hung over, and hunched uncomfortably in a way that indicates both physical and emotional pain. He should say something comforting, he thinks.

“She won’t forgive you yet, you know. It’s useless to beg.” John stops, dry toast halfway to his mouth.

“Oh, ta. Thanks for that delightful advice.” Perhaps not quite right then.

“I’m just observing, John.”

“Well, in the words of someone you respect more than anyone else, stop inflicting your opinions on the world.”

“Very funny.”

“Also, put some pants on. That sheet is indecent.”

“That is the point, John.”

“Will you bloody stop trying to seduce me?”

“Yes. When it works.” Sherlock waggles his eyebrows in the most ridiculous way possible, and John can’t not laugh. Sherlock look so outlandish, standing in a ray of sunlight by the window in his sheet. His mad curls are backlit, and the slightly unhinged expression on his face does nothing to diminish its beauty. One long pale arm is exposed, the lean, beautiful lines clear against the fabric, and it draws the eye down to his long legs and elegant bare feet.

John shakes his head to clear it.

“We’ve discussed this, Sherlock.”

“No. You laid down the law.”

John can’t quite dispute that.

“I just can’t go back to loving you, yet. Things aren’t resolved.”

“There is no measurable way that sexual contact between us will worsen your standing with Mary.”

“Not in your mind, no, but it would be disloyal. You can’t measure these things.”

“You’re punishing yourself, that’s what you’re doing.”

“Maybe it is. And maybe I deserve it.”

Sherlock knows what to do now; he crosses the room towards John and wraps his arms around John’s body, closing him in, safe. John leans back a bit, enjoying the flex of Sherlock’s muscles against his back and the pressure of Sherlock’s hands on his chest.

“You don’t, not really. Neither do I. The circumstances are unusual enough that there’s no real precedent, though, and so you are basing your moral decisions on a very different paradigm.” John winces.

“Do you mind, Sherlock, not using such long words at this time of day?”

“Antidisestablishmentarianism.” Sherlock knows this will make John laugh, and it does.

“You are so contrary.”

“It’s part of my charm.”

John, despite himself, leans back into Sherlock’s body.

“I don’t know what to do. She won’t talk to me, and it’s paralyzing me.”

“She will talk. Eventually. She knows what she wants.”

“I know. I just don’t know what she wants.”

“You. Or rather, the you she had before I came back. Which is impossible, obviously, so she’ll just shout. She wants to shout at you, then forget you.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, that was unnecessary.”

“It’s the truth, though.”

John hunches himself over again, pushing Sherlock away. Sherlock knows that he’s gone too far but he wants to help John and doesn’t know how, other than providing him with the truth.

“What if I don’t want that? What then?” He’s angry now, and Sherlock reaches out to him again. John pushes his hands away.

“But you do, John. You want her to move on. It will assuage your guilt.”

“Look, can we leave my guilt alone, especially as you, Mr. Consulting Detective, just pointed out that it is apparently useless, and talk for just one minute about how you were the one that left? If you hadn’t left, or even if you had just thought, for a minute, about contacting me, then I wouldn’t be in this bloody fix!”

“We’ve been over this, John.”

“Yes, yes we have. And we’ll go over it again, too, no matter” John holds up one finger, stopping Sherlock’s comment before it starts, “how irrational you think it is, because emotions are very different from facts. I need you, need you, to hear me, because no matter how empathetic I am to the pain it caused you, I have my own emotions. So hear this: I am furious with you. I grieved for you. I tried to move on because of you, for you. And when I did move on, when I allowed Mary into my life, you came back! She helped me, too, and I owe her for that, at the very least.”

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest.

“I can’t say anything that I haven’t already said, John. I couldn’t have told you- I was being watched, and any change in your behaviour would have meant death for you.”

“Do you really think I’m so transparent, Sherlock? That I couldn’t have acted a part, just for a while?”

“I didn’t want you to be burdened with my ghost. It was so…” He hasn’t spoken, much, about what it was like to be dead, even supposedly, or what happened while he was, “I was, I am, so changed that I didn’t want you to feel obligated to stay with me.”

“Because of course I know nothing about personal change in traumatic circumstances. Because of course I would give up on you, someone I killed for, the only man I’ve ever loved.

You are so stupid, sometimes, Sherlock.”

 

 

**_Tell me you love me,_ **

**_come back and haunt me_ **

 

Sherlock is a little stunned. He has felt, rather than known, that John’s love is solid and enduring, but to hear it laid out so explicitly brings him to a new realization of just how solid and enduring it is. And though, or maybe because, his life before John had been devoted to shutting out emotion, the last two years deprived of John’s love have been harder to bear than the fifteen loveless years of his adult life that had gone before.

And then, he’s crying, again. He’s cried more in these two years that he did before as well; it’s unfair and irrational, but there it is. Through his tears, though, John’s face is luminous.

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock knows it’s not enough. It’s a step towards enough, though.

 

“I know.” It’s John’s turn to take Sherlock into his arms.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“Me too.”


	8. Howl At Your Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has fallen back into life with Sherlock, sort of. It's hard to resist someone who needs you.

**June 2013, Baker Street**

**_Or I'd crawl to you baby_ **

**_And I'd fall at your feet_ **

**_And I'd howl at your beauty_ **

**_Like a dog in heat_ **

**_And I'd claw at your heart_ **

**_And I'd tear at your sheet_ **

 

When Lestrade calls his, rather than Sherlock’s, mobile with case information, John is surprised; it’s the first time since Sherlock’s ‘death’. Lestrade knows that John’s back at Baker Street, but especially because of the events of the last month, he hasn’t really expected the call. Lestrade is sympathetic, more than John ever expected, but these steps back in to their old life are jarring at times.

“I need you two and Sherlock’s not answering his mobile. This assault case seems straightforward, but there’s something about it that’s too easy. I think there’s more” Lestrade is short but not unfriendly, so John agrees to get Sherlock and head down to the Yard.

He knows Sherlock is sleeping, and he hates to wake him up. They’d been up late last night, not exactly talking, not exactly not talking. John had been flipping between the television and a book, and Sherlock had gotten stuck into his laptop (John suspects he was trolling conspiracy theory forums again, but he just doesn’t want to know. He lost three jumpers and his favourite mug in the great 9/11 argument of 2010). It was almost like their old companionable silences, down to the current of sexual tension in the room. Every time John looked over at Sherlock, he felt an overwhelming sense of disbelief that he was there, right there, and he’d had to look away.

“Sherlock?” He cracks the door. He’s not sure he really wants to see inside. Sherlock in a dressing gown in the living room is bad enough. Sherlock sprawled in his bed wearing what he usually wears to bed (which is nothing) is going to be more than he can handle.

“I’m coming. I’ll be dressed in a minute.”  

Relief. Sort of. They head off and down the stairs, John watching Sherlock go out the door. He’s reminded of the first time he did, the day he saw 221B Baker Street for the first time.

On their way, Sherlock isn’t very talkative. He’s shrunk back into his own head, not telling John what’s on his mind.

“What’s going on, Sherlock? What’s odd about the assault case?” He breaks the silence, hoping this will rebuild their rapport, in his own way.

Sherlock turns to look at him, almost surprised.

“Lestrade’s noticed a pattern. Or rather, he hasn’t. The assaults are random, but almost too random; when they’re laid out on a map, they are evenly spaced.”

“So someone’s being overcareful?”

“Or attention-seeking. But the motive is still unclear. I need more data.”

The cab pulls up to the address Lestrade had given him, but there’s no crime scene in sight. Sherlock tells the cab to stop anyway, leaping out. John pays the cabbie and follows.

“Sherlock, this doesn’t seem ri-“ The words are barely out of his mouth when there’s an explosion from somewhere to the right. He dives to the pavement, seeing Sherlock do the same. A plastic bin flies into the street, and John crawls through the rubbish towards Sherlock, who’s flattened against a wall. He’s breathing hard, and John watches him carefully. This too is familiar. It’s too familiar, and it’s terrifying, seeing Sherlock in danger, again.

Deep breath. He can help, this time, nothing like the fall, watching helpless from the ground.

He’s there just in time to catch Sherlock as he crumples to the ground.

**_______**

 

 

“Tilt your head up... good, now to the left... can you follow my finger?”

Whatever tension there might have been between John and Sherlock seemed to have been abandoned in favor of being a Medical Professional.

Sherlock hates that. _Hates_ that order for John to actually speak more than five civil words to him, he has to be injured.

“Sherlock?”

“What,” he nearly growls.

John puts his hands up, a gesture of surrender. Injury must be worse than he thought.

“You just seemed kind of spacey. You could be concussed you know. We should really go to A&E.”

“And why, pray tell, would we need that when you’re a _doctor_?”

John’s expression closes off and Sherlock feels like kicking himself.

“Do you want anything else?”

“Yes. Take your shirt off.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. John blushes slightly.

“No-I mean yes- just- Sherlock, your arm wound is bleeding through your shirt!”

Sherlock smiles.

“Pity,” he says in his loftiest tone of voice, “I liked this shirt”

John giggles bubbling, slightly drunk-sounding laughs, which sets Sherlock into a chuckling fits that soon enough landslide into full-on hysterical laughter.

“You _like_ that shirt”

“Of course. Whenever I wear this shirt to an interrogation, I get, on average, 5% more accurate answers.”

John snorts lightly, in between peals of laughter. “Do you get propositioned 5% more often, too?” John asks.

Sherlock feels drunk, disoriented. He hasn’t slept in two days. The adrenaline high of the case is crashing. That, paired with his concussion, is making him delirious.

It suddenly seems like the most natural thing to do to rest his head on John’s jumper, burying his face in his stomach.

John stops laughing.

John’s hands are carding through his hair, pulling him- no, not pulling away. Stroking.

“You’re concussed.”

“Only mildly”

“There is no such thing as a mild concussion”

Sherlock shakes his head in John’s jumper. If he can stay here, close to John for a little while, maybe he’ll forget.

He’s aware that his reasoning might be a little bit flawed.

“Come on Sherlock, I’m tired.”

“I’m not concussed”

“Uh huh”

“I didn't hit my sk-skull hard enough for that”

“You’re exhausted, Sherlock”

He snorts. “Sleep is for the weak”

He is aware of gentle fingers pushing of his shirt and cleaning his wound. He is aware that he is being walked to his room. He is aware of being laid down on a bed. Quiet words from John (Go to sleep, idiot)

“John, stay here.”

“I’m here, Sherlock. Go the fuck to sleep.”

The last thing Sherlock remembers is laughing into John’s chest.

 

## _____ 

 

John wakes up with a faceful of curls. Sherlock is still fast asleep, curled in a limp ball in the crook of John’s arm. Grateful, John takes the time to caress Sherlock’s head, his shoulder, his arm. He’s still so thin; his tricep is clearly visible, even in relaxation. His wound hasn’t bled through the bandages, though, and he was reasonably easy to rouse from sleep in the night when John checked his concussion, so he will, eventually, be all right.

John raises himself up on an elbow and looks, really looks at Sherlock again. He’s heartbreakingly beautiful, even thin and ravaged like this. John is more grateful than he can say to have Sherlock back, soft and angular in the confines of his arms. Though, before Sherlock, he had counted himself heterosexual all his life, he feels no strangeness anymore at this body that is like his but so unlike his: it’s Sherlock. He almost wishes sometimes that it was not enough, but he knows, despite Mary, that it always will be.  

Almost automatically, John lowers his head to kiss Sherlock behind the ear. That kiss leads to another, and another, and before he really knows it, he’s working his way down Sherlock’s neck to his beautiful collarbones, tasting the slight salt of his skin. Any minute now, Sherlock will wake up, and when he does, and the limit’s John’s set are going to disappear in a puff of breath.

John stops kissing, his breathing already ragged. He wants Sherlock so much, but he can’t allow himself to go any further, not yet. He is in a moral gray area already, and if he’s being honest with himself, it’s a pretty dark gray right now, not just sleeping next to Sherlock, but entwined around him with a raging erection. If Sherlock wakes up, he won’t have a chance.

Carefully, John disentangles himself. He gives Sherlock one last look before he leaves the bedroom, and pads out. Tea, he thinks, and maybe if I look at the dishes in the sink I’ll want him less.

He looks down at the tent in his pyjama bottoms. Unlikely. Maybe a wank first, then.

He ultimately decides against it—he knows Sherlock would scoff, saying he was being totally unreasonable—and he’s halfway down his second cup of tea when he hears Sherlock waking up. He empties the teapot into a mug and adds the obscene amount of sugar that Sherlock requires.

When he gets to the bedroom, Sherlock is awake but not dressed.

“Tea, Sherlock?”

“The service around here has improved. Thank you John.”

“Don’t be too polite. I might fall over.”

“You could fall over into bed.”

“Jesus, Sherlock! Leave it, already.”

“You clearly want to be here, John. Come here.”

“Sherlock! We have talked about this. Leave. It. Alone.” John is about to use his Captain Watson voice, but he knows it won’t make it any better. Probably worse, with that soft look Sherlock gets in his eyes when John takes charge.

“We’ll talk about our relationship when I’ve settled things with Mary. Can you please just let me deal with that?”

Sherlock nods, just barely.

 


	9. Say "Please"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both John and Sherlock visit Mary, with mixed results.

**June 2013, Mary’s flat**

**_Oh and I rush to the start_ **

 

Sherlock feels ridiculous.

This isn’t the plan at all. He is supposed to come back to Baker Street, explain what he has done to John, and then resume his partnership with John as before with, perhaps, make-up sex and John punching him in the face (just to get it over with) and maybe an I-love-you on Sherlock’s part.

Because, as Sherlock has realized during the months he spent alone, he does love John. Desperately, in fact.

John was to be married. He still loves her. She has been, and probably will be, good for him.

Sherlock should be satisfied with that; he was, in fact, the person who pushed John away. Multiple times. Sentiment is a chemical defect...

Sherlock reaches the address he has acquired, somewhat underhandedly, from Mycroft. He rings the doorbell once, footsteps towards the door then a pause indication of anger. No... nerves.

The door opens to reveal a small, angry woman. Her fist clenches around the door handle at the sight of Sherlock. Her face is red and blotchy, she’s just been crying, and Sherlock can tell that her pyjamas are three days old, at least.

“Well,” she declares, leaning against the doorframe, “You fucked up.”

Sherlock merely raises an eyebrow. Mary walks into the flat, leaving the door open behind her. No invitation then. Well, he can hardly blame her. The affection of John Hamish Watson really isn’t something to be taken lightly.

Sherlock follows her to the kitchen and sits down at the kitchen table. There are signs of John all around him here. Not like 221B, but still noticeable. Medical textbooks, a jumper thrown across the back of a chair, a box of John’s favourite Darjeeling tea-

A cup of tea is placed in front of him with a bang, and Sherlock nearly jumps.

“I’m not even sure if I should be giving you tea, considering the fact that my fiance cheated on me with you.”

Ah. Not beating around the bush then. Sherlock eyes Mary warily. He can see why John likes her.

“Is the tea poisoned?” Sherlock asks.

Mary almost smiles.

“Yes. Just assume there’s enough arsenic in there to kill an elephant.”

Mary sits across from her, and Sherlock sniffs the tea before he drinks it. This time Mary does smile, if only slightly.

“I love him. I love him, but that’s not what matters. You are good to him. You are good for him. You make him feel... secure. You won’t hurt him, at least not as much as I do.” The words come out of Sherlock in a stilted jumble, his hands clenched around the tea mug. Mary looks pained.

Sherlock continues, “What happened was a mistake. I initiated. Prior to my death we had a physical relationship. I wasn’t thinking, obviously.”

“Sherlock-”

“It’s not his fault. He loves you. He is honest when he says that... he is the best man I know. Please forgive him.”

Sherlock stops for a moment, face blank. He look at Mary’s face, searching for answers, then nods.

“I’ll…” Sherlock pauses because though he will say this, he doesn't want to, “leave. I will…give him up.”

“You’ll delete him.” Mary’s tone is dubious, he thinks. She doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t really believe himself. Giving up John—because he _can’t_ delete him—would mean a return to near-complete isolation. He tries not to think about the ridiculously illogical action he’s performing, all the more dangerous because he will try, and fail, to forget John. He will, perhaps, be able to dull the memory of the intensity of contact between their bodies; he will never be able to erase John’s solid, loving presence, and he doesn’t want to.

“I will try. He is more likely to have a satisfactory life with you.” He’s not exactly lying. John will certainly be safer, both physically and in the eyes of the world, with Mary.

“Bullshit.”

“With you, he could have children. He won’t have to deal with the stigma homosexuality brings. He is unlikely to be shot at, knifed, kidnapped, tortured, or” Sherlock pauses, half smiling, “starved.”

“So I’m the safe option?”

“You’re safe and strong. You challenge him, clearly.”

“We are…we were good together. And he’s not a child to be challenged. He’s a man, a strong man, and I think he’d object to you being here and trying to arrange his future for him.”

“I know what he wants.”  
“You know what you want.”

“It’s the same thing.”

“John was right. You are an arse.”

“Right now I’m being a selfless arse. Or trying, anyway.”

“All right, then, Mr. Selfless, what about me?”

“What about you? You do want John with you, but on the other hand, you don’t.”

Mary folds her arms and glares at him, eyes bright with tears.

“You bastard. You know that’s true. I love him, of course I love him. But, you know what? He loves you.”

“He loves you too.”

“Not the way he loves you. And you know what? I don’t want to be second best. When you were dead, it was fine, but now you’re bloody alive. Every time he sees you, swanning around London in that goddamned coat, he’ll be reminded that there’s something out there he loves more than me. And even though he might come back if I asked him, I don’t want to watch him be so noble. I don’t want to live with that. I deserve better.” The tears finally spilled over. “So fuck off back to Baker Street. I don’t ever want to see you again.” She stands up. Clearly the interview is over.

 

Sherlock is torn, for a moment. He’s done what John would have done, offered to step aside, and now he doesn’t have to and John is his, his! Mary’s face, though, tempers his elation. She is the one that has to bear the hurt, and he is conscious now that he is dealing with someone that John loves.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, but there is no reply.

 

The best he can do is leave her in peace, he decides, pushing his chair back and stands up, striding out of the room.

 

When the door slams behind him, Mary drops into a chair and buries her face in her hands.

 

**June 2013, Baker Street**

**_Nobody said it was easy_ **

When John looks at his ringing mobile and sees Mary’s number flash up, he almost doesn’t answer. It takes three rings before he’s courageous enough to answer.

“All right,” she says, “Let’s talk.”

“When?” He can’t quite believe it.

“I’m home tonight.”

“Tonight, then.”

 

**_  
_June 2013, Mary's flat**

**_I’d say please, please_ **

**_I’m your man_ **

 

 

John takes the long way to their… to Mary’s flat, making the long walk in his thin coat It’s a useless penance and  he knows it, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do.

There are only her shoes in the hall now, and seeing that makes John reluctant to step through the door, although Mary has invited him in.

He doesn’t want to sit, either, but she has, though she is looking out the window rather than at him. He hovers for a minute, then, taking the chair beside her, rather than his usual chair opposite, he sits.

“I’m so sorry.” he says, probably for the hundredth time since Sherlock’s return.

Mary is facing him now, her mouth set.

“Tell me, then, John. Because I think I understand, but I want to hear it from you. Also, if I’m right, I’ll be angry.”

She doesn’t flinch while she listens. John looks at her as he has done so many times, with admiration; she takes his story, which, no matter how often he tells it, boils down to the fact that she just isn’t Sherlock.

And, being who she is, she ksn’t angry because she ksn’t Sherlock. She’s angry because he had settled for her, because his dishonesty had lain in proposing to her knowing she wasn’t Sherlock. And she is angry with herself because she knows it doesn’t make sense to be angry about and because of someone who has been, to all intents and purposes, dead.

John stops talking.

 

Her lips are still set, thinned. She sits there, small, compact, tense; as the silence grows, her body is all John can think about. How her small, pink-tipped breasts rise and fall during lovemaking. How she calls out for him to come inside her. How she rolls over in a ball next to him and sleeps afterwards, putting paid to the stereotype of the postcoital chatty woman.

 

He is appalled at how strong his need for her is. He had made love to her always as if he were drowning, and even now, even knowing how he has put her aside, he would reach for her had he been closer.

How does a man reconcile need for one person and lust for another? It is _maddening._ John curls his fingers into palms and screws his eyes shut tightly.

Mary shifts next to him on her chair. Her next words are soft.

“All I ever want from you, John, is your honesty”

“Mary, please-”

“Shut up John, just... shut up”

Mary suddenly looks drained, tired. The fact that he has caused that, that _he_ has made her look like that threatens to wrench hysterical laughter from his throat.

“I don’t need to restate your sins, John, because you know what they are, and can probably imagine them in vivid, technicolor detail as I _speak_.”

The last three words are spat with enough venom to kill. John winces. Mary takes a deep breath and continues,

 

“I am not cruel or vindictive. I love you. And I know- I know that you love me too, because more than that, John, I know you. I know that when you say ‘I’m not hungry,’ it’s because your appetite’s shot from being up all night from nightmares. I know what your face looks like when you’ve come. I know what it takes to love and be loved by you.”

Mary is shaking by this point, a consistent tremor running from head to toe. She looks almost... scared, something she almost never is. _Am I scaring her?_

Abruptly, she gets up and puts her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder. John’s arms come up to clutch  at her t-shirt.

“I know that you are completely and utterly in love with him, John. Don’t try to tell me otherwise.”

John shakes his head into her hair.

“I don’t know how to love either of you without hurting the other.”

“You don’t have to, John.”

That’s as close to a blessing as Mary is give him. If John has learned anything in his life, it’s that it’s usually best to listen to Mary Morstan when she speaks.

“Now go, wanker, before he decides to set the flat on fire in a fit of pique.”

John lets out a choked half laugh into her t-shirt. Mary is a miracle. She is everything that he should be satisfied with. The fact that he can’t be reflects more on him than on Mary.

* * *

In another life Mary Morstan should have- would have- been enough to keep him together. There, Sherlock might have actually died on that blood-stained pavement to save his friends. In that other life John would never have known. In that life he could have curled around and into his wife, and she, the wonderful Mary Morstan, would always be heartbreakingly, startlingly _there._

In that other life, John would settle. He would decide to teach med students at St. Bart’s. He’d go to the pub with Lestrade on weekends, and finish his job as Sherlock’s Boswell without Sherlock complaining about it.

John would have never again felt the sting of a knife against his neck. He would never relish in the push and pull of hard angles and mile-long legs that would only ever ask for _more_. He would never be allowed to run a hand through meticulously kept curls. He would have never saved a life again outside a hospital.

 

In this life, though, the decision is obvious. But it’s not easy.

* * *

John goes home.


	10. So Hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock discovers that all actions have consequences.

**June 2013, Baker Street**

**_Nobody said it was easy_ **

**_No one ever said it would be so hard_ **

Sherlock waits for John to come home. When he does, Sherlock knows that it’s done, but that John still feels guilty. His slow step on the stairs, his drooping shoulders as he comes into the room confirm it.

 

“How are you?” It may be the first time Sherlock has ever asked that question and really cared to hear the answer.

“Not brilliant.”

“She was very angry, I know.”

“What do you mean, you know. I mean, I get that you know, but…did you talk to her?”

“I went to see her.”

“You did what, Sherlock Holmes?”

“I went to speak to Mary.”

“Before I did?”

“I wanted to make it clear that I was willing to part with you, if that’s what you wanted.”

“You know that’s not what I wanted!”

“I know. I knew she would refuse, but I also knew that it would be the catalyst for your inevitable” Sherlock raised his hands into air quotes, “’talk’.”

“Jesus.” John ruffled his hands through his hair, “I meant, what I wanted was not for you to interfere. I have to deal with this myself.”  
“I only wanted to help, and there was some effect, you have to admit that.”

John whirled on his heel.

“Yes. There was an effect.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“The problem is that you’re an interfering imbecile with the emotional intelligence of a rock.”

“I offered to _give you up_ , John.”

“I am not a _possession_ that you _give up_ , Sherlock!”

“That’s what she said. She knows you well.”

“Of course she does! We were together for a year, nearly. We were going to get married.”

 “You and I could get married, you know.”

“Right now I’m not sure I want to get a takeaway with you, never mind get married.”

“You’re letting your emotions interfere with your …”

“My emotions. I’m letting my emotions interfere with my emotions.”

“Yes.”

“Were you in the wild for two years, being raised by wolves? No, wait, don’t answer that. Wolves would have taught you manners.”

Sherlock sighs. John has finally wound up his relationship with Mary, officially, and yet he is being so _difficult_.

“John, you are being contradictory.”

“I am being a human being, Sherlock.”  
“Potay-to, poTAH-to.”

“I can’t argue with you. I need some air.” John got up and walked towards the door.

“No, wait.” Sherlock actually stood up and placed himself between the door and John.

“I’m sorry. Again. I’m sorry. It’s the best I can do, John.”

John’s shoulders droop.

“I’m just not sure what _I_ should be doing.”

“You should be kissing me. You should be using your medical knowledge to do unspeakable things to my body and help me solve cases. You should be continuing to be yourself.”

“Eventually, I guess, Sherlock.” John reaches out, touches his arm. His hand is shaking.

“I’m going to bed. Alone. Just one more time, Sherlock. I need a little space.”

“Are you going to kiss me?” Sherlock needs that point of contact, needs the reassurance. It’s a weakness that he didn’t have before John, and he hates himself for having to ask for it.

John doesn’t say anything, but he moves towards Sherlock and tilts his face up, brushing Sherlock’s lips softly with his own.

“Good night.”

“Good night.” John walks up the stairs, alone, again.

Sherlock turns back to the living room. He’s sure he has something long and very complex to read somewhere. Maybe if he finds it, he won’t go upstairs and beg John to take him to bed.


	11. Disappear For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty still haunts Sherlock. Sherlock's death still haunts John.

**June 2013, Baker Street**

****

**_And if you've got to sleep_ **

**_A moment on the road_ **

**_I will steer for you_ **

 

_Moriarty’s dead face was right beside him, and he was stepping off the edge of the building. Only John wasn’t there, wasn’t watching, and Sherlock knew suddenly that he was already dead, that it was too late. He hit the ground running, looking for John, but all he could see was pools of blood and fallen trees. He opened his mouth to call for John, but his voice was choked with a susurrus of voices, layer upon layer of Moriarty’s mad final moments, hissing around his ears and into his mind. He moved around a corner, away, and Lestrade’s dead face was suddenly right in front of him._

_“Where’s John?!” he tried to scream, but Lestrade shook his head._

_“Dead.”_

_“He’s not dead! I’m dead! John is alive!”_

Sherlock comes screaming awake. His mouth is dry and there is a faint taste of dried blood on his tongue. John, mercifully, thankfully, is standing over him, a glass of water in his hand and concern on his face.

“Bad dream?”

Sherlock reaches wordlessly for the water. Once he’s drunk it, he tugs at John’s arm.

“I’m glad you’re alive.”

“I never died, you know.”  
“But you were so close to it, and my consciousness replays that outcome over and over again.”

“Caring isn’t an advantage, as Mycroft says.” Sherlock is a bit confused to hear John saying this. It seems to be coming around an awful lot these days.

“You know I’ve always cared about you.”  
“You have a damned funny way of showing it sometimes.”

“I know. Part of my charm.”

John pokes him.  
“Budge up, then.” Sherlock shifts, and John sits on the bed beside him.

“No tea?”

“Drink your water first.”

“Nag.”

“Git.”

Sherlock rests his head on John’s shoulder and drinks his water.

“He’s dead. He _is_ dead, John.” It doesn’t really sound like a statement.

“He is. He has to be. You saw it with your own eyes.”

“Sometimes that doesn’t feel like enough.”

“I know.”

“Kiss me again?”

John does, Sherlock’s hair this time.

“Go to sleep, Sherlock.”

  
Sherlock rolls against the warmth of John’s body, listening to him breathe. He intends, once John has relaxed against him, to insinuate his hand under John’s t-shirt and feel John’s skin, touching his ribs, which are absurdly sensitive to stimuli, then that soft spot below his navel. Once he’s done that, he should have no trouble convincing John to take his clothes off and make love to him, again, finally.

 

“One more?” Sherlock lifts his face. He’s pushing his luck. John tenses a bit. He smells like Pears soap. Like home.

John’s licking his lips and his heart rate is elevated.

Sherlock covers John’s lips with his own. He never understood the pleasure of kissing before John, but something about the firmness of that small mouth beneath his own is endlessly diverting.

 

John is unresisting under his touch. Sherlock slides his hand around the back of John’s neck, ghosting along until he reaches the occiput. He lays his warm fingers on that hollow, just pressure, until John takes a deep breath and relaxes into the kiss. His reactions haven’t changed, and Sherlock feels buoyed. That knowledge, at least, has stayed constant.

 

He opens his mouth, just enough to take John’s lower lip between his own. John likes this too, the nip of teeth on that sensitive tissue, a little suction, a gentle bite. When Sherlock does it, smoothly, easily, John exhales and unbends another notch, leaning against Sherlock and tilting his head up. Sherlock slides his tongue along underneath John’s upper lip and against John’s tongue; their mouths are open and melting together now.

 

The kiss goes on and on, fuelling a gentle swell of desire, until they are both breathless and hard, rocking against each other with a pleasant languor.

 

John pulls back, finally.

 

“You are so difficult, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“This is the easiest thing in the world.”

 

“Is it?”

 

“It is. Now take off your shirt.”

 

“You’re pushing your luck.”

 

“Is it working?”

 

“No.” John dredges up his moral principles from somewhere in the morass of desire. “Sherlock, you’re

 

“Why do you insist on putting obstacles in our way, John?”

 

“These are not obstacles, Sherlock. We’re re-establishing our relationship, and it takes time.”

 

“You are ridiculous.”

 

“Well, excuse me.” John gets off the bed, “Before you can enumerate the multiple ways in which I am ridiculous, I will go and be ridiculous somewhere else.”

 

“If you would stop flouncing off when you are angry you would be less ridiculous.”

 

But John has already left the room.

**_And if you want to work the street alone_ **

**_I'll disappear for you_ **

 

John wakes up in the middle of the night. The flat is eerily quiet. Sherlock can’t be sleeping, he thinks, but when he listens for the violin, or the click of laptop keys, he hears nothing. It might be unreasonable to think he’s gone somewhere dangerous, to worry, but then this is Sherlock Holmes. Nothing is unreasonable when it comes to him. 

 

John knows he should stay in bed and wait for Sherlock to come home, but it’s too soon to be this nonchalant. He gets up, dresses, puts his gun in the back of his trousers, and heads out.

 

Where could he be?

 

The first logical stop was Bart’s, and John hails a cab, trying not to think about the last time he did this thing. He is careful to only look in front of him as he heads in.  When he gets to the morgue, he taps on the door and the tech lets him in, nodding in a friendly way.

“He was just here, Dr. Watson. He looked at those files and left.”

“Thanks, Charlie.”  

Moriarty’s file. Of course. When in doubt, get data, and the only place to get the data Sherlock is really looking for is at Moriarty’s burial site. John snaps a picture of the name of the cemetery on his mobile: City of London Cemetery and Crematorium. Funny, he would have put money on Moriarty being buried somewhere just a touch more exclusive.

  
He waves to Charlie and leaves. There are a few cabs around as he comes out—there always are at hospitals- and he takes the next one that comes by. It’s a hell of a fare, but he shuts it out of his mind; he just hopes Sherlock is still there.

 

Through the gate he goes. He has a torch in his pocket, but he doesn’t take it out, yet. He doesn’t want to change any of Sherlock’s variables on the off chance that this is an experiment. If, as he suspects, it’s a pilgrimage of sorts, he doesn’t want to intrude. As long as he can find Sherlock and see that he’s safe. He’ll save the blowing up for when they get home in one— no, two pieces. After all this, they’re still two pieces. He wishes they were back to one, the two of them a unit against the rest of the world, but they’re not yet there. It’s partly that the ghost and the guilt of Mary hangs over John-his face wrinkles up wryly when he thinks about what Mary usually says about guilt (the word ‘fuck’ is involved). It’s also partly that when Sherlock fell, on _purpose_ , John remembers angrily, there was something that broke, and as much as his body wants to mend that break, he is still angry. He thinks. It is so difficult to stay angry at Sherlock. It’s even more difficult to maintain reasonable boundaries with Sherlock; they are so much each other’s that despite faked deaths, betrayal, lies, infidelity, and those damned thumbs in the fridge, all John really wants to do is melt right back in to their codependent bliss.

 

Why not? I mean, why not? John knows that if he were his own doctor, he’d be concerned about the warning signs in his relationship with Sherlock. But he also knows that it’s perfect for them, and yet he can’t quite let himself fall into it again. He doesn’t know what it’ll take, he thinks, though it won’t matter if he can’t actually find Sherlock.

 

He starts walking faster. The cemetery is large, but John finally does get lucky; going around the edges to the newer burial sites, he comes around a corner and sees Sherlock in the distance. He is standing straight and stiff, looking at what John presumes is Moriarty’s grave.

 

Given the absence of any digging equipment, John decides not to intrude just yet. He stops, settles into a comfortable position, waits.

 

He doesn’t wait for long, though.


	12. I'm Your Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the simplest solution really is the most effective.

**_I'm going back to the start_ **

 

“I know you’re there, John.” Sherlock can’t decide if he’s offended or flattered that John has found him. John is doing his best to be still behind a tree, but John’s still, though better than most people’s, is nonetheless screamingly obvious to Sherlock.

 

“I know you know I’m there.”

 

“So come out.”

 

“Do you want me to?”

 

“Might as well.” When John comes into view, he is clearly angry.

 

“Very encouraging. You know, I don’t like it when you run off in the night.”

 

“I had to come, and you were sleeping. I would have been back before dawn.”

 

“You could have left a note.”

 

“I didn’t have to. You found me.”

 

 

At this, John pinches the bridge of his nose. Warning sign. Sherlock tries again, tries to explain his real motivation. John needs that sometimes, he remembers.

 

“What I mean, John, is that I needed to see where he was. I know he is dead. I saw him shoot himself, and I made sure it was for real; if he hadn’t been, I might have been able to avoid…the fall. Leaving you. Coming back to this.”

 

John’s hand drops to his side. He’s not going to explode now. His natural empathy is awakened, and his anger shifts a couple of degrees towards understanding.  

 

“I am sorry, Sherlock.”

 

“So am I. But I need you to come back to me.’

 

“I know you do. But…”

 

“Why? Why is there a ‘but’? You’re here. I’m here. Set aside that conventional, boring, moral noise in your head? Because the outcome is a foregone conclusion.”

 

“You are so fucking arrogant.”

 

“But I’m right.”

 

“I hate it when you’re right.”

 

“No wonder you’re so full of rage.”

 

“I am not.”

 

“You are. Look at you. Your fists are balled up. You wish…oh!”

 

“What?”

 

“Punch me in the face.”

 

“Sherlock!”

 

“No, I’m serious. Punch me in the face.”

 

“Why would I do that?”

 

“Because you want to. Because you need to. You talk and talk, emotions, blah blah blah, but really, what you need to do is punch me in the face.”

 

John raises his eyebrow.

 

“Do it.”

 

“You want me to punch you in the face.”

 

“John, if you continue to state the obvious I am going to punch you.”

 

“I just don’t want to hurt you.”

 

“That’s the point, isn’t it? You need to hurt me. I want you to. Need I remind you what happened the last time you punched me in the face?”

 

“Come on, Sherlock- our first kiss wasn’t even until four days after that.”

 

“Yes, but it was part of why the first kiss happened. Now do it, before I knock you down.”

 

“You’re mad.”

 

“And you love me. Now go on.” Sherlock turns his face towards John, ready. He sees the anger swell up, move through John’s body and make it whipcord-tight. He loves the compact efficiency of John in motion, especially in motion with violent intent.

 

The force of the blow ripples through Sherlock’s body. It’s a beautiful punch, right on the jaw, and he falls despite himself, toppling back into the grass. He lies there for a moment, suspended in time, just feeling: the soft grass underneath him, the clear sky above him, the pain in his jaw, the pull of desire lower down.

 

It isn’t the pain that Sherlock loves as much as it is the contact with John, any contact with John.

 

After what seems like ages, John drops to his knees beside him. His face has already smoothed out and he’s stopped flexing his hands.

 

“I hate it when you’re right.”

 

“That’s the second time you’ve told me that in the last ten minutes.”

 

“So I’m redundant. I do feel better though.” The crinkle around John’s eyes is back, too. Sherlock could leap up and embrace him, but he holds still.

 

“I won’t say I told you so.”

 

“You all right?”

 

“Of course. It won’t even bruise.”

 

“Not that. You. Are you all right?”

 

“Do we have to talk about emotions?”

 

“Not if you tell me you’re all right and mean it.”

 

“I’m all right.” Sherlock smiles up into John’s eyes, like he’s been doing since John shot the cabbie and saved his life.

 

“We’re okay, then.”

 

“Foregone conclusion, John.”

 

“Is it a foregone conclusion that I bend you over a gravestone and fuck you silly?”

 

“I would have said that bench over there—more respectful to the dead, more in keeping with that overactive moral compass of yours—but, at the risk of making you change your mind, yes.”

 

“Come here, then, and let’s get started.” John tugs at his hand, impatient.

 

“I’m still a little dizzy.” He’s not. He is just… happy.  John leans over to look at him, and behind that beloved face is the sky, starlit and infinite. It’s suddenly the perfect night, and it comes together so suddenly for him that he has to brace himself against the grass.

 

“You’re perfectly all right. I suspect malingering.”

 

“Lie down. Shhh.”  John does, rolling on to his back, shoulder to shoulder with Sherlock, curious but quiet. The silence settles over them, and Sherlock breathes in its rarity; he gets a measure of quiet when he and John are touching, but never like this.

He synchronizes his breathing with John’s and keeps looking at the sky. John curls his hand into Sherlock’s, and they lie there for a while, feeling the earth turn.

 

“Can you still enjoy the quiet if I kiss you?” John asks after a minute, “Because I need to.”

 

Sherlock nods.

 

John raises Sherlock’s hand to his mouth and kisses it, first the back of the hand, then the tip of each finger. He turns it over, then, and applies a slow kiss to the palm. When his mouth reaches Sherlock’s wrist, it is slightly open, and the kiss is damp and hot on the sensitive skin over the pulse point.

 

Sherlock seems to feel that kiss all over his body. John shifts, then, sitting up and looking at him again. Sherlock fixates on John’s lips, thin but generous, and tugs a little on his sleeve.

 

John bends over and kisses Sherlock’s cheekbone as deliberately as he has kissed his wrist. Then, he trails kisses down to Sherlock’s ear, sniffing Sherlock’s hair, his cologne, the smell of his coat. Then, he breathes gently on Sherlock’s earlobe and kisses down his neck to his collarbones. Sherlock lifts his chin and shivers; John makes a pleased noise and continues up Sherlock’s neck towards the other ear and cheekbone.

 

When he finally finishes that glorious trajectory, Sherlock is covered in gooseflesh. He’s also just about ready to beg John to kiss him, but he holds back; John’s shifting his weight, which means he will kiss him soon.

 

First, though, John looks at Sherlock again. Sherlock knows that he’s attractive, but nothing makes him feel it as much as being the object of John Watson’s assessing gaze. It’s the first time John has looked at him like this since his return, and Sherlock savours it.

 

When John bends to kiss his lips, he reaches out to pull John down to him, but John resists.

 

“We have all the time in the world, now.”

 

Sherlock lapses back on to the ground and lets John possess his mouth, lightly, too lightly at first, and then more insistently. The lights in the graveyard flicker out, all but a single one by the entranceway, and they’re alone in this cemetery, joined at the lips and the heart and the soul.

 

When John, without taking his mouth from Sherlock’s, straddles him, though, Sherlock stops thinking so much about the soul and starts thinking more about the body. Suddenly, he needs more than kisses, wants John to take him, now, and fast, to imprint his body on him and never let go.

 

To that end, he lifts his hips, rolling them so that his cock is aligned with John’s as far as it can be. John, teasing, raises himself up so that Sherlock can’t reach him. He lifts his mouth, too, whispering “Wait” and then biting Sherlock’s lower lip just hard enough to make Sherlock jump with pain and desire.

 

Sherlock reaches down towards John’s fly button. His fingers shake a bit and John takes advantage of that weakness, grabbing his hands and pushing them back.

 

“Is this what you want, then?” he asks, lowering his hips and grinding his cock against Sherlock’s. The layers of fabric between them don’t do much to disguise his erection. Sherlock can almost see it, thick and heavy and hot, and a frustrated noise escapes him. John grins and gets up, holding out his hand.

 

“Come on, let’s find that bench.”

 

“Over here.” Sherlock leaps up and leads John to a large stone bench, in the lee of a hedge. He sits and pulls John towards him, setting his hands back to John’s flies. This time he’s allowed to undo the button and the zip; he pushes John’s trousers around his hips and presses his face into the soft cotton of John’s pants, his mouth brushing John’s erection through the fabric, breathing in John’s smell. He only lingers for a moment, though; John tugs his hair, and Sherlock slides his long fingers under the waistband of the pants and pulls them down. John’s cock springs free, and Sherlock doesn’t tease, just takes it in. John exhales loudly, his breath shushing into the quiet night, and Sherlock, possessively, takes as much of him in as he can, going back and forth until John’s hips are rocking and he is breathing even more loudly.

 

“Stop, now, if you want me inside you.” Sherlock pulls back reluctantly, and John, cock still free, drops to his knees in front of the bench. He puts his hands on Sherlock’s thighs and looks at him; Sherlock’s now-trembling hands go to his own flies, and, as John watches, he pulls out his own cock.

 

“Touch yourself,” John breathes, and Sherlock does, putting one hand around his cock and the other on John’s neck, as if testing his solidity. John turns and takes Sherlock’s thumb into his mouth, sucking it gently, and Sherlock’s hips arch up a bit. He puts that thumb on his cock, John’s saliva mingling with his own wetness, and whimpers as John watches.

 

When John finally takes Sherlock’s cock into his mouth, Sherlock can’t watch anymore. He throws his head back, closes his eyes, and just feels. John is always very careful when he does this, as if he is afraid of damaging Sherlock, and the light touches of his tongue are torture. His hand is steadier, firmer, but as Sherlock starts to breathe more harshly, John stops. He takes his mouth away for a moment, and Sherlock feels bereft; when the mouth returns, there are damp fingers with it, trailing down behind Sherlock’s balls to the sensitive area beneath, and then further still, pushing against his clothes.

 

“I know you want this. Spread your legs.” It’s an order. Sherlock grabs both sides of his trousers and works them down, trying not to lose the suction on the end of his cock or the pressure further down. When his trousers are at his knees, John carefully probes him, working the tip of a finger in, then the whole finger, slowly. Sherlock is pinned now, a mouth on his cock and a finger in his arse, and each rock of his hips is bringing him closer to orgasm.

 

“John, slow down. I don’t want to…” He can barely speak.

 

John stops, with one last long lick along the underside of Sherlock’s cock. He withdraws his finger slowly, gently, then grabs Sherlock’s hips and shifts him so that he’s on his knees on the bench. Sherlock cooperates, setting his forearms to the back of the bench and spreading his legs as far as his trousers will allow. He closes his eyes again, waiting. He’s surrounded by sensory input: the green scent of grass and trees, the cool breeze against his bare skin, the rustle of John’s clothing being pushed down.

 

Finally, the sensation he’s been waiting for: John’s cock against his arse, hot and slick. John steadies Sherlock’s hips and aligns his cock with Sherlock’s arsehole.

 

“What do you want, Sherlock?” His voice is teasing but terse, thick with desire.

 

“You, inside me. Please.” Sherlock pushes towards John, hoping for mercy, but John is not quite ready.

 

“You are such a tease. You promised to fuck me silly—as if that were possible—and look at you.”  He hopes that will goad John to action.

 

“I am enjoying this moment, Sherlock. But all you have to do is ask.” John pushes in just a bit and Sherlock makes a low grumbling sound that mingles frustration and pleasure.

 

“Please, John.”

 

John pleases, and the head of his cock slides inside. He gasps, and Sherlock keens.

 

“More, please.”

 

John slowly slides the rest of the way in, breathing harshly.

 

“You are so good,” he says, voice hoarse.

 

Sherlock can’t say anything at all; he’s hanging over the end of the bench, panting. He’s painfully hard, drips of precome forming on his cock.

 

John begins to move in and out, setting a slow pace that makes Sherlock want to scream. The rasp of John’s breath is the only thing he can hear now; his senses are dulled to anything else.

 

“…please…” he says with the last of his self-control, and John speeds up, gripping Sherlock’s hips and angling his thrusts to catch his prostate. Sherlock is floating now; he can feel his orgasm approaching from a long way away, almost see it, even. Every one of John’s increasingly loud noises brings it closer, as does the feeling of John’s balls tight up against his arse.

 

John’s thrusts lengthen, drawing out the pleasure a bit, but they’re both too keyed up to let it last long. John chokes out a “Christ!” as he comes, burying himself deep inside Sherlock, bent over his back. Sherlock’s skin will bear the marks of his fingerprints for a week.

 

His climax barely over, John reaches around to take Sherlock’s cock in his hand; one, two, three strokes and Sherlock is coming too, with John’s breath over his back and John’s come sticky in his arse. He feels possessed, taken, held safe, and he gives himself over to his orgasm with quiet, hot intensity.

 

John doesn’t let go of Sherlock right away, stroking his cock, cupping his balls, caressing his thighs.

 

“Mine,” he says, with a smile in his voice. Sherlock hears him, faintly, and relaxes his body, bracing his head against the bench.

 

“Yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to davidtennantismyspiritanimal for the starlit night suggestion!


	13. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When your relationship is based on bone-deep compatibility, when it's the two of you against the rest of the world, maybe certainty isn't what you need.

**July 2013, Baker Street**

**_If you want a father for your child_ **

**_Or only want to walk with me a while_ **

**_Across the sand_ **

**_I’m your man_ **

  

John comes in from work to Sherlock playing the violin.

 

“Is that…Leonard Cohen?”

“I’m impressed that you noticed, John.”

  
“Well, it’s not exactly your usual fare. More my style than Shostakovich, say.”

Sherlock puts his hand back to the bow and starts the song again. John can’t help but sing along, although usually Sherlock disapproves of such levity while he is playing.

 

“If you want a father for your child, or only…” He trails off.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“What?”

 

“What about children?”

 

“What about them? They’re small humans. They can be interesting, although the noise and mess of them usually outweighs the interest factor.”

 

“So you don’t want any, then?”

 

The look of horror on Sherlock’s face is immeasurably priceless.

 

“All right, all right, I was just asking.”

“We are hardly at risk of procreating, John.”

“I know. I just thought I’d ask. It seems like this might be permanent, right?”

“You won’t leave me, and I won’t leave you, so no. Children are right out, but we could get married, I suppose.”

“You really want to get married? That is the second time you’ve brought it up.”

“It does seem logical. Benefits, etc.”

“That wasn’t what I asked you.”

“Do you, John?”

“You’re evading the question.”

“I am choosing not to answer it.” Sherlock picks up his violin and continues to play.

John gets up to put on the kettle. He’s still humming.

 

_“I’m your man._

_If you want a lover, I’ll do anything you ask me to...”_

 

 


End file.
